The Ancient Boy & The Viking
by irrevocably-twisted
Summary: Begins in Episode 2x08, "Timebomb." Eric has shared a bond of unimaginable strength with his Maker for ages. He doesn't understand why it should be any different now. But Godric has come to realize his greatest enemy is himself and risks losing it all to the dark.
1. The Viking

Eric followed Godric to his resting place in silence.

He had followed Godric for centuries, and he found the old pattern of retracing his Maker's footsteps familiar and comforting in an odd sort of way he couldn't place. Without even thinking about it, he put his feet in the exact spots Godric's had been. It was old habit.

"Step only where I step," Godric had once instructed him when he was still new. "Learn to walk as I do. Be quiet. Disturb nothing."

Eric stared at Godric's back, noting the way his hands were always half-curved into fists, prepared for the onslaught of battle at any moment. He knew Godric's tendency to sway his arms slightly with each step and expected it when he paused for a fraction of a second as they came to a corner.

Those were behaviors learned from millennia of hard living. Those were behaviors Eric had picked up from him.

Even in the very beginning, Eric had never minded walking behind Godric. The idea only bothered him in principle. Of course Eric never liked, nor ever would like, someone else coming before him. But Godric was so much shorter than Eric, it hardly mattered if Godric was in front of him or not. He could always see over his head.

A pang of wistfulness accompanied the thought as it filtered through Eric's mind.

When Godric stopped in front of one of the many doors dotting the walls of the corridor, Eric stopped too. He remained precisely four steps back, a respectful distance away, automatically.

It was not often that Eric was put in a position where he was required to defer to someone else. In Louisiana, he was a Sheriff, and since he'd surpassed his thousandth year, he was recognized as a vampire whom precious few could overpower. He was surprised at how quickly the appropriate formalities came back to him.

This was Godric: his father, his brother, his son. This was his _Maker _in every sense of the word.

Eric was overwhelmed again with the thought of all he would have lost if Godric had been destroyed by the Fellowship of the Sun. If Stan, or anyone else like him, had murdered Godric in their own greedy pursuit of power. If he'd truly been gone from this world—

Eric was not keen on emotions. They were pesky inclinations that motivated humans to make terrible decisions and act even worse. It was best to avoid them, and, in avoiding them, sidestep all of their disastrous consequences.

Godric had taught him to think strategically about every detail of his life. "Make certain your head is clear of all influences outside logic," he would say. "Have no regrets."

But that degree of loss, the mere idea of it, sent a hollow aching so deep inside of Eric, he couldn't find a single place within himself to take refuge from it. There was no aspect of Eric that Godric had left untouched. There was nothing unaffected by him.

Eric followed Godric into the room, forcing himself to remain composed as he shut the door behind them. Now that they had reached their destination, he was free to meet his Maker where he stood in the center of the room and position himself at his side.

Godric was always such a concrete, unstoppable force in his mind. Nothing could overpower Godric; Godric was invincible. He had long withstood the test of time. Eric never once entertained the notion that he could be taken from him. Until a few weeks ago, when he learned of his disappearance. And the possibility of having him taken away became all too real.

Godric interrupted Eric's horrific train of thought with a small bob of his head. "What do you think?"

Eric realized belatedly he wanted his opinion of the room. He tore his gaze from Godric unwillingly and surveyed the décor, though he could really care less about what the place looked like so long as Godric was safely contained within it.

The walls were an off-white color that served to compliment the intentionally dim lighting of the room. (Godric had been born into a world where fire was the only means of evading the dark, and Eric knew he did not care for anything overly bright.) The furniture was sparse, but every piece was of the highest quality imaginable. Eric duly admired the intricate designs decorating the dresser at the far end of the room. He assumed the craftsman had been Vampire, as he didn't believe any human could possess that degree of patience. The bed was nearby, just as was customary in human bedrooms.

The window, sealed shut with heavy coverings that would not allow even the tiniest slither of sunlight to shine through, and the ancient artifacts Godric always hung on the walls wherever he stayed were the only indications that it was not a mortal who retired here. Eric had not spied the artifacts yet, and he glanced around in search of them. They were miniscule pieces of the places Godric had been that could be taken down in half a second's notice.

"So that, regardless of where an eternity carries me, I never lose sight of my past," he had explained.

As the centuries crept by, and Eric traveled with Godric from the Old World into the New, he began to notice that, while Godric continued to tote his reminders with them, he never obtained any new pieces to add to his collection.

"There is no need," was the answer when he questioned him about it. "I have you with me now."

Eric scanned the walls a second time in order to pinpoint the current location of the mementos. His expectant gaze wandered each one, beginning with the blank surface in front of him and pivoting around clockwise until he was back to where he started. Each was as barren as the last.

Believing he must have missed something, he stepped closer to the wall the headboard of the bed was pushed up against (recalling that was most often where Godric chose to hang them) and began to scrutinize its blankness further.

"They're gone," Godric said, knowing exactly what he was searching for.

Eric turned to look at him, his typically blasé expression slightly taut with misunderstanding, "Why?"

"It was time."

Eric watched as Godric paced to the bed and balanced himself on the edge of it without anything further. He gave the room another once over, then mirrored Godric's actions without prompting. He didn't bother with respectful distances when he sat, and Godric showed no signs of disapproval at his closeness.

"How long have you been without them?"

Godric stared at an invisible spot on the wall Eric had been scrutinizing, as if he was envisioning the artifacts there. "Not long. The past three decades or so."

"Doesn't it seem…empty to you?"

Eric knew it sure as hell seemed empty to him. Empty. Desolate. Devoid of personality.

Amazing that before he knew Godric's artifacts were gone the space had appeared fine. Only after the fact did he absorb the knowledge that nothing here was really Godric's. The décor was only reminiscent of the vampire who inhabited it. What it contained were but echoes, like the metallic reminisce a sip of synthetic blood leaves on the tongue after a swallow.

"Sentimental value fades, just like everything else. I saw no reason to cling to material possessions I no longer have any use for."

"You could have sent them to me."

Godric faced him with a glint of amusement in his eye, "And what would you have done with them?"

"I could've put them on display at Fangtasia. I'm sure relics from Ancient Rome would have been quite a draw for tourists."

For an explanation pulled directly out of his ass, Eric thought that sounded pretty good. It was much easier to say than the truth: he wouldn't have wanted them for any other reason than that they were part of Godric.

The ghost of a smile graced his Maker's lips, "Then I apologize for depriving you of business."

The ghost vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and Godric returned his attention to the wall. Eric examined the side of his face, calling to memory the last time he'd looked upon it.

Not one night went by without Godric passing through his thoughts in some form. Everything Eric said, or did, or contemplated doing could be traced back to a moment, a conversation, a lesson involving his creator. But, as often as he thought of him, Eric's visits to Godric were brief and far in between.

It wasn't something that was intentional. It wasn't something that happened in the blink of an eye. It's not possible to transition from spending every waking moment alongside someone to letting a lifetime pass without exchanging a single word in an instant. That kind of erosion occurs slowly, in a gradual process of separation and growing apart.

"Gawking is an offensive pastime, best left to the fools who founded the institution."

Godric's reprimanding tone was familiar to Eric, but it was dehydrated by exhaustion. Instead of looking away, he stared all the more intently. A change had definitely taken place in his Maker since the last time they were together. However, he was struggling to identify how profound a change it was.

"I should visit you more often," he concluded aloud.

"You visit often enough."

Eric tried not to be hurt by the snub. He quit gawking and mimicked Godric's transfixion with the wall. Said by anyone else, the mild rejection wouldn't bother him. Said by his Maker, it stung. And when he looked at the wall, he thought about the artifacts again, recalling why Godric had rid himself of them.

_Sentimental value fades, just like everything else. I saw no reason to cling to material possessions I no longer have any use for._

He felt a brand new sting as he made an intuitive leap, connecting himself to the artifacts. It wasn't a leap at all, really. Just a small step. If Godric didn't care about the memories the artifacts represented, then why should he care for the ones Eric carried with him?

Eric despised how much this revelation ate at him. He felt weak for placing this much stock in the opinion of one person, for continuing to give a damn when obviously the unbreakable bond he believed in with such blind faith was not being upheld on the other end. All of the devotion and undying loyalty he invested had somehow become onesided.

"What changed?" His voice came out softer than usual, hushed by other questions he couldn't get past his lips.

Godric noticed the difference. He stared at him, picking apart his expression with a focus so intense that it was impossible to hold his gaze.

"Eric," he replied seriously after a moment, "I don't place you among the relics." He lifted a hand to Eric's head and stroked the blond hair there in an old, soothing motion of their past. "I love you above all others."

Eric let Godric's assurances relieve him without resistance. He immediately felt guilty for ever questioning anything. A thousand years should be enough time to ease any doubts, but his had still gotten the better of him.

From the initial shock of Godric's disappearance, to the chaotic quest to find him, to second-guessing the invincibility of their bond, Eric was shot. He allowed the welcoming sensations of stability and rightness to flow through his veins like a narcotic. And then the Viking, who very recently had been enraged at himself for relying on someone else so heavily, slumped limply into the ancient boy's side. It was not a comfort he would have allowed himself under any other circumstances, but it was far from the first time Eric had leaned on Godric.

"It's a fascinating concept, love is." Godric moved the hand that had been stroking Eric's hair to his shoulder, inviting the burden of his weight. "They say it never dies."

"Like us," Eric said, smiling at the irony of relating the horrific image of a vampire to the glorified idea of love.

Godric smiled with him, "I suppose, in a technical sense. But not really. A stake through the heart, silver, the sunlight… We can be destroyed."

Eric thought of the fickleness of love. He sneered at the idealistic views of eternal faithfulness and affection the humans attempted to bind themselves to with petty, pointless vows. Holy matrimony was a joke. If it weren't, what would be the need for divorce? Monogamy was clearly not natural.

"Love can be destroyed."

Godric shook his head, his chin brushing Eric lightly on its pass. "I don't think so. I think it's simply forgotten."

Dawn encroached. A vague weariness settled over Eric, and he straightened to glance at the window. There was no point in looking, the coverings over the glass gave away no hint of the sky lightening, but he found himself double-checking anyway. Two years of society accommodating them was nowhere near enough to erase centuries of surviving secretly beneath the human radar.

He turned to Godric, a farewell caught in his throat. His Maker was obviously safe, yet he was still unable to recover from the staggering possibility of loss. Like yanking the foundation out from under a building, without Godric he would collapse. Eric could not let Godric out of sight. He was not yet strong enough.

"The day is rising," he said in a desperate attempt to justify what he was about to ask. "May I stay with you?"

Godric cocked his head at him, and Eric fully expected to be called out on his weakness. He prepared himself for a swift, stinging humiliation. He wouldn't try to make excuses. He would accept whatever rebuke he had earned.

But the infinitely powerful vampire beside him looked him in the eye for several torturous seconds, and then turned away. "If it suits you."

Eric blinked. Yes, a change had definitely occurred in his Maker that he hadn't been around to witness. He rose with a nod and proceeded to remove his clothes, his confusion mounting when Godric made no move to join him. He sat stoically, like a pondering statue devoid of any kind of animation.

Stripped bare, Eric reclined back on the mattress without bothering with the blankets. They were for show as far as vampires were concerned. What was the point in using them when one did not give off body heat? He crossed his arms behind his head nonchalantly and shut his eyes. He had no qualms with nudity. Actually, he preferred it to the annoying restriction of clothing.

It was a relief to hear the bed's soft squeak when Godric lay down next to him. Despite his outward peace, he had wondered if his Maker wouldn't just sit there staring numbly off into space until the early hour forced him to submit to it. Eric cracked open an eye lazily, the weariness of the day was increasing in potency with each passing minute, and appraised him.

His Maker rested facing him on his side, covered all the way down to the shoes on his feet. He was propped up on one elbow with his head cradled in his palm, his deceptively wide, childlike gaze fixated on him. Godric was appraising Eric too.

Eric waggled his brow at him.

A grin broke out on Godric's face, and a tiny chuckle escaped him.

It was the first time since Eric had reunited with Godric at the Fellowship of the Sun church that he had expressed anything resembling joy. Eric drank in his mirth, feeling triumphant for having evoked it.

"You still have a sense of humor." Godric folded both arms across his chest, lowering his cheek to meet the pillow. "I'm glad."

The new position exposed more of the tattoos concealed underneath his shirt than the previous did, and Eric was reminded of one of the conversations they'd had about the various marks of ink etched into his skin. He had assumed they were a reward, symbols to denote a higher rank and status, and Godric was quick to correct him.

"They were a punishment." Eric could still remember the way he ran his thumb along the design wrapped around his collarbones as he said it. "One I will continue to serve forever, as it turns out."

A voice identical to the one in his memory summoned him back to the present.

"Tell me something, Eric. Are you happy?"

Godric was safe, here, alive, speaking… Eric let his eyes slide closed. "Why shouldn't I be?"

He felt the bed tremble. Godric must have shifted again. He was beginning to feel a little weightless himself. Though the room was carefully shielded from any confirmation, Eric knew it must be daylight. The weariness was tugging at him, pulling him closer and closer to the edge of the grave.

He would have fallen in, had Godric not spoken again.

"Louisiana, Fangtasia, Pam…these things bring you happiness?"

"Yes," Eric whispered simply, quite literally half-dead.

Godric did not ask him anything else. Eric let the day disconnect him from his body and drifted without quarrel into the silence of temporary death.

But all was not silent. There was something brushing his hair—a whisper.

"Persevere, my child."

It sounded so final that Eric fought for awareness, trying to get enough of a hold on it to resurface, but too much time had passed since he surrendered. The words were left hanging over him. They felt too few and too heavy, and Eric's last thought was that something was very wrong.


	2. The Perfidious Lawyer

Small spaces did not mix well with Hugo Ayres.

Currently on the run from vampires and Light of Day fanatics alike, his life depended on his ability to hide and remain soundless. Yet even that wasn't enough to keep his claustrophobia at bay. Unfortunately for Hugo, hiding and small spaces came hand in hand.

His fingers, slippery with perspiration, struggled desperately to undo the top button on his terribly wrinkled dress shirt. It felt like he was suffocating, and knowing his shortness of breath was caused by fear rather than true lack of oxygen didn't make the panicked illusion any easier to deal with.

Hugo gritted his teeth together, mentally counting backward from ten. This was not the time or place to go into phobia-induced cardiac arrest. He sincerely doubted a disheveled fang banger dying on the coat closet floor would conjure very much sympathy from the Fellowship.

Just days, hell, _hours_ before, he would not have had any trouble convincing himself his supposed friends at the church would resuscitate him. But those friends had since locked him down in their basement with seemingly no intention of letting him out, and he couldn't be entirely certain they weren't planning on killing him themselves eventually.

As a defense attorney well versed in the delicate balance of crime and justice, Hugo knew that, on some level, he deserved this. He was a traitor; a low, cowardly reincarnation of Benedict Arnold in the pathetic flesh. On some level, he had earned his suffering.

But Isabel betrayed him first.

He adored her, worshipped her, and craved her more than anything on this Earth. She introduced him to a part of himself he'd never known was there; a dangerous, rebellious part that overtook him with the ferocity of a demonic possession.

Suddenly there was more to life than work, and bills, and lackluster repetition. For once he was not just another beaten down legal asshole in a suit and tie. Isabel, an immortal entity of unfathomable power with practically limitless options, desired him. At last Hugo had what he had been fighting for all along: He _mattered_.

After that, the fall from grace was effortless. He became intoxicated with purpose. The diminishment and consequent sacrifice of his old life was made without a second thought. He didn't need it anymore. He had Isabel, and he was positive his future was in eternity with her.

Except assumptions like that didn't hold up in court. And what was society if not a giant network of informal trials? Someone was always accusing somebody of something. In one way or another, everyone was trying to weed out the bad seeds, the deception, and uncover the truth.

Hugo should have made sure he and Isabel were on the same page before he started counting his chickens. He shouldn't have let fantasies of glamour and never-ending nocturnality carry him away. But he did. And when he finally broached the subject, Isabel refused to turn him…

Hugo sifted through the quiet around him with a tentative ear. As far as he could tell, the entryway outside the closet was vacant. He inched reluctantly away from the rusty wire hangers dangling uselessly from their hooks, waiting for slightly chillier weather to give them cause again. It was an almost vain hope in a city such as Dallas.

He reached for the doorknob; gulping back a wad of contradictory anticipation and fear. On one hand, he wanted nothing more than to be free of his current confinement. On the other, he was scared shitless of what would happen to him should he be captured. But one way or the other now was his chance.

The door nearly flew off its' hinges when confronted with his urgency. It slammed into the wall with a noise much louder than Hugo had ever intended as he bolted recklessly toward the exit.

_Almost there, _he chanted in time with each step, _Almost there._

And then, just as he was crossing the threshold, he hit a barrier of solid flesh.

"Hey!" the barrier exclaimed in agitated surprise.

Hugo took one fleeting glance at the man standing in the way of his freedom. A spark of recognition ignited in his eyes as they settled on the features pulled in sharp angles by rage.

It was Luke McDonald.

Hugo met Luke in passing on one of his informational delivery trips to the church. Steve, who had been all too gracious and forgiving of Hugo at the time, introduced him as "one of the brightest bulbs in our arsenal of light". Hugo hoped for his own sake that the Reverend's statement didn't apply to Luke's intelligence.

The perfidious lawyer ducked under McDonald's right arm and continued onward without pausing to see if he was being followed. He pushed his legs faster in a flame of victory as he wound down the empty city streets, streets which were deserted with the lateness of the night, and realized he'd made it much father than he ever expected to.

But he was far from safe. The vampires knew he had wronged them, and so Hugo would never be truly safe again. It didn't matter where he went. It didn't matter how much time passed. They were everywhere, and to them time was an entirely irrelevant concept.

Hugo veered off from the main road; leaning against the side of a building to catch his breath. Any physical exhaustion he felt was amplified by the thought of the unrelenting sense of endangerment he would now shoulder for the rest of his life.

He couldn't afford to dwell on it at the moment, though. First and foremost he needed to get out of the immediate area, or else the rest of his life wasn't going to be very much longer.

Hurriedly considering his options, the perfidious lawyer wiped a drop of sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve. He winced as his arm came in contact with the place where Gabe had punched him just before kicking him unconscious. Hugo didn't know what happened while he'd been napping on the floor, but when he came to Sookie was gone and Gabe's neck was broken.

He finally decided he would return to his apartment to pack, then book a flight out first thing in the morning. It wasn't stealthy or remotely unpredictable, but it was the best he could come up with. His only hope was that word of his treachery hadn't spread too far in the vampire community yet.

Hugo took to the sidewalk; traveling the luckily short route to his home at as casual a pace he could manage…

Later, after having completed one of the most painful walks he'd ever experienced (thanks to Gabe), Hugo staggered lifelessly into his apartment. He limped his way over to the couch and collapsed without even the strength to turn on a light. It wasn't necessary anyway. The moon was out; full, bright, and silver as a great, glimmering coin in the sky.

He rolled toward the expansive window, which made up most of the eastern wall, and stared into the bluish glow as it bathed his aching body.

It wasn't until then that he saw her.

She was standing in front of the moonlit glass; an outline cloaked in black, as if someone had cut her out of the picture and left behind a hole specific to her every detail. Her back was to him. Everything perfectly straight. Perfectly still. Perfect.

Like a hungry mouth that waters at the sight of food, Hugo felt himself stiffen in his slacks. It was absolutely absurd when in all likelihood she was here to kill him, but the way she waited stirred too many recollections of other nights he had come home to find her just as she was now.

He had taken her on this very couch; against that very window. If he turned his head, he would see the bloodstains on the armrest from when she fed from him; her fangs like twin daggers in his jugular, dragging him with her into a state of pure, undiluted ecstasy. And, oh, the thrill that shot through him even now at the excitement of fucking on something as boldly transparent as glass. How he had grunted out her name so loudly he was sure the whole state of Texas could hear:

_Isabel! Isabel!_

She let him drink from her that night.

"Lust, Hugo," the dark outline of her said suddenly, tapping into his emotional state and reading it off to him with ice hanging from each accented syllable, "I expected fear, shame, regret. But _lust_…"

"I…" Hugo began, but his tongue turned to sandpaper.

Isabel whirled on him. In a flash her cool fingers were coiled around his arm; forcing him off the couch and into a vertical position which trapped him helpless inches from her menacing glare. The fangs that he had coaxed from her only in passion previously darted free in vehement hostility.

"You are a spineless, despicable excuse for a man," she jeered, "And I am sorry I ever touched you."

The perfidious lawyer swallowed, "Isabel-"

She whipped her hand out to cover his mouth, grabbing hold of his chin with agonizing force, "Do not speak. Your voice sickens me."

She held him like that, staring unblinkingly as he squirmed under her gaze. She waited until his heart was pounding out of his chest and he was positive his chin would be as black and blue as the rest of his face. Then she shoved him away in disgust. He narrowly missed the couch and ended up on the carpet.

"We could have lost our Sheriff because of you!" Isabel snarled, "How could you do this?!"

Given what she told him before, Hugo didn't know if he was supposed to respond or not. From the floor she appeared especially threatening, and he looked elsewhere as he tried to decide what the right course of action would be.

He took too long to think it over.

An immortal hand snaked out and struck him in the same place Gabe had punched earlier. It was nowhere near as hard as he knew she was capable of hitting him, but it still caused him to cry out in pain.

"Tell me!" she demanded.

Hugo rushed to pull himself out of reach, then wobbled to his feet. The words, the same words he had used all along to justify his involvement with the Fellowship of the Sun, burst out between them.

"You betrayed me first," he accused.

"_What_?" Isabel was aghast.

She crossed the space Hugo had put between them and balled her hands into fists in outrage, "I have done nothing but care for you."

"You never cared for me. All you did was use me! You knew you were never going to make me your equal!"

The fires of hell blazed behind Isabel's eyes. Now she was livid.

"You went to the Fellowship because I wouldn't _turn _you?!" she grabbed Hugo by the shirt and pulled him to her, "I should beat you to a pulp and suck you bloodless."

Whatever courage he had found in his reasons vanished in an instant. The perfidious lawyer struggled in terror; very much aware these could be his final moments.

"Please," he begged, "Don't hurt me."

Isabel let his desperation saturate the air for an unbearably tense minute.

Then she said, "I won't."

Hugo was so shocked his next question escaped without any consideration of its implications, "Why?"

"It is not my place to sentence you."

She returned her grip to his arm and began to tow him toward the door. Hugo's feet caught on the edge of a coffee table as he stumbled under her forceful influence. It crashed to the floor; obliterating a decorative vase nearby. Isabel didn't even seem to notice the destruction.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, afraid.

Her mouth was a hard line, "To Godric."

Hugo looked back at his apartment as she pulled him through the doorway. He wanted one last memory of home…

"Here is the one who betrayed us," Isabel announced venomously to the large gathering of vampires in Godric's nest.

She grabbed the collar of Hugo's shirt and thrust him to the floor; throwing him carelessly to the lions. The rug seared the heels of his hands as he tried instinctively to catch his fall. The resulting burn traveled from there up to the backs of his ears, which were hot with the vicious stares of so many royally pissed off immortals.

All conversation ceased.

Hugo felt as if he were at work in the courtroom. He sensed the malice charging the atmosphere like some doctors claimed to sense death. These creatures wanted him to pay for what he'd done. They wanted him to pay dearly.

"Hell," drawled someone Hugo identified immediately as Stan, "You didn't drain the little shit yet?"

"That is not my decision to make, Stan, and you know it. Where is Godric?"

He was keeping his eye trained on the fibers in the rug, but Isabel's last question caused the perfidious lawyer to lift his head. Hugo could count the number of times he'd seen Godric in person on one hand, and it was still a much larger sum than he would have liked. The ancient boy gave him the creeps- to put it mildly.

But he needn't have worried. Just as Isabel had led him to believe, Godric was nowhere to be found.

Idly, Hugo wondered if the vampires around him were losing their grip on sanity. Had they wanted their Sheriff back so badly they had imagined his escape from the Fellowship? It was almost comforting to think vampire psyches were just as prone to delusional behavior as the human mind. However, he knew it was no more than a wishful impossibility conceived in his own desperation to live.

"He wandered off with his _progeny_," Stan sneered, "Didn't say when or if he'd be comin' back. Even if he did, he'd probably just give this one a goddamn slap on the wrist and send him on his way. Fuckin' pacifist."

A hushed murmur descended over the crowd. Whether it was in consent or defiance couldn't be discerned, although Hugo thought it sounded more like the latter.

"Whatever he chooses to do will be his choice. If you disapprove of his policies, you can tell him so to his face," Isabel said defensively, "I would love to see how he responds to your criticism."

"And in the meantime we're just supposed to let this traitor hang around and enjoy the party? I'll take care of him myself."

Stan advanced toward Hugo; his hat pulled low over his eyes, his upper lip curled to expose his teeth. Another second and his fangs would be out. Another two seconds and Hugo would be history.

But then Isabel did something completely unexpected: She jumped in Stan's path.

"You will do no such thing."

Her back was straight; determined. Hugo stared at the shield she provided in undeserving disbelief. Why would she bother to stop the cowboy from finishing him off? Did she find it too easy an execution?

Stan snorted, "You can't be serious. He was with the Fellowship, Isabel."

"Yes, the same Fellowship that had Godric. It is not my place to deal with him, and it certainly isn't yours. We will withhold him here until the Sheriff is available."

She turned to Hugo and began to lead him out of the room. Her hand made an inescapable cuff around his thin wrist. Her pace was just brisk enough to be uncomfortable. He tried to meet her gaze, but she refused to spare him a glance. She looked forward and nowhere in-between.

Stan shouted something angry and profane after them, but Isabel didn't acknowledge that either.

The steady collisions of shoe and floor were the only noises to be heard in the hallway. They hadn't traveled far when Isabel halted by a deep oak door. She opened it to reveal a box-like guest room with forest green walls, a leather upholstered coffin, and a lit tiffany lamp.

"Wait here," she instructed, still without looking at him.

Hugo followed his orders; marching inside obediently and sitting hesitantly on the lid of the coffin. Already he could feel unease settling in his gut. This room was too closed-in to make his stay even remotely pleasant. Judging by Isabel's vengeful smile as she shut him inside, she was very aware of that fact.

The perfidious lawyer gritted his teeth together, mentally counting backward from ten.

Small spaces did not mix well with Hugo Ayres.


	3. The Ancient Boy

Godric watched Eric succumb to death with every ounce of his 2,000 year old concentration.

Very few things required that level of attention from the ancient boy, and even fewer received it. But this was conceivably the last time he would lay eyes on his child. He would overlook nothing.

The easy relaxation of the muscles, the tension draining from the face, the motionlessness that wisped around and within him… He looked like death and peace, because one could not exist without the other. One could not have peace without death; one could not have death without peace.

Death- the name Eric had called him by before any other. Barbarian, Tyrant, Comrade, Maker, Godric- those all came later. But Death, Death was first.

Well, Godric had made his peace. He thought he made it much earlier, before he'd offered himself to the anti-vampire church. But he was wrong. Eric deserved a goodbye, and, as unfortunate as the recent turn of events seemed, they had allowed Godric to give him that much…in a round about way, at least.

The ancient boy supposed he could consider himself a coward for not revealing his true intentions to Eric. However, he knew doing so would only result in a nasty confrontation that would do nothing to benefit either of them. He wanted to make this as painless as possible for everyone involved...for the Viking especially.

Of course it was going to be difficult for the companion he'd spent the better part of a thousand years with. Godric wasn't so delusional he could deny that. But, quite frankly, there was nothing he could do to-

Abruptly Godric's body was shot through with deep, cutting aches. His arms, his legs, all of him tensed and throbbed as it had been doing routinely for the past…Week? Two weeks? He wasn't sure… Godric resituated himself, sitting up and rearranging his weeping limbs until the hunger pains eased. As long as he didn't remain in the same position for any extended period of time, it was manageable.

A sip of blood was literally all it would take to ward off the spasms, but Godric didn't want it. He took a certain amount of pleasure from his physical suffering, and, anyway, the pain was a welcome distraction from the convoluted workings of his jaded mind.

Godric stared at Eric a moment longer, letting himself slip into the ocean of memories he had accumulated over his many lifetimes. He had once heard a doctor say memory was stored in the back of the brain. Whether this information was still considered factual, or whether it had ever been factual in the first place, he couldn't be certain. Experience had taught him just how unstable even the most seemingly concrete discoveries could be in the human world.

But if that doctor was somehow correct, Godric was sure his memory had filled the back of his head and began pushing forward long ago. He had a sense that the space reserved for his conscious thoughts was shrinking as his past extended. It was almost frighteningly easy to step into another time, another place…the ancient boy had known so many.

Godric was to the point that his conscious thoughts were but a precarious ledge he was balanced upon; constantly lapped at by the rolling waves of times which had been and all but swallowed whole during a high tide.

His own physical weariness motivated him to resurface. Even as old as he was, Godric could still feel the day's draining effects weakening him. He could not linger any longer. His eternity was, at last, drawing to a close.

As he had told Eric, _It was time._

The ancient boy rose with thoughts of the sun burning behind his eyes. The images in his memory of the giant, blazing star that sustained all life were scant and horribly faded. Honestly Godric could not tell whether they were images he had actually witnessed himself, or if they were sights he'd gathered from photographs and movies over the years.

There were quite a few things like that for him.

While he was mentally flipping through recollections of the inaccessible daylight, Godric's eyes fell on the sloppy pile of black garments that Eric had discarded on the floor. Just as he was about to turn in the direction of the door, the faint glimmer of something unlike the rest struck his eternally puerile curiosity.

So few things struck anything in him anymore, he embraced the impulse like something long lost and infinitely precious.

In a flash he was kneeling beside the Viking's clothes. He lifted the necklace that had captured his attention by the pendent, grasping it inquisitively between his first finger and thumb. A dim shadow of recognition registered within him (dim because that was how everything registered to Godric: dimly, dully, and distantly), and he let the C-shaped object slip down to settle in his palm.

The point- unbelievably just as sharp as it had been the last time Godric had held it like this- pressed into his skin. The pale covering a slight inch away from his wrist responded to the pressure like white tissue paper; yielding without any of the resistant bounce one would expect from such an apparently youthful surface.

The ancient boy almost smiled at this minute, tangible proof that his physical self was a lie.

Godric was still crouched down holding the reminder in his hand when the door opened. In a house full of vampires, in the early hours of a sunlit morning, this was an extremely odd occurrence. He didn't know of any one of his underlings who would be bold enough to burst unannounced and uninvited into his resting place.

The ancient boy looked up to see the large, startled eyes of a soldier from the Fellowship of the Sun. He was wearing a utility belt of sorts, equipped with at least a dozen sharp, wooden stakes. They were attached to the belt by thin loops of white elastic; each spaced roughly the width of one large finger apart.

The loop on his right hip was empty. His right hand was not.

The servant of His Holy Light, as Godric understood they liked to call themselves, held the freed stake in a vice grip parallel to his line of sight. He had clearly intended to charge into the room with his weapon and destroy all of it's' occupants. But the sight of Godric, lucid and capable before his eyes, shook him.

His gaze locked on Godric's and for a lingering breath neither did anything but stare at the other. How Godric envied the purpose and determination simmering behind the human's every twisted feature. Even the hatred, ugly as it was, sang out to him.

Looking such energy in the face felt so bizarre to him now. It was nearly impossible to believe he'd ever known its urgency. To want, need, crave, care, _feel_…

Godric pulled unneeded air into his lungs and donated it to a soft sigh. Then he let the necklace that had captured his interest fall back on to Eric's clothes. He rose to his feet and the human in the doorway backed a few steps into the hall, his actions much more instinctual than deliberate.

"You are here for my nestmates," Godric said plainly, following the human's retreat out of the room and shutting the door behind them.

The human man cowered in the hallway. Godric observed how he tightened his empty hand into a fist, clenching it in nervousness. His eyes twitched with the desire to escape the vampire's stare, but they were unable to break away.

There was a split second when the Solider of the Sun panicked, but faith truly was a powerful thing. He was a warrior on a mission for his leader and their cause to cleanse the planet. If he died, he would die for a reason. His God, his Jesus, would protect and save him. And so all at once his demeanor transformed with conviction.

Immediately the cowardice was overtaken by surprisingly forceful bravado. And Godric envied him again.

"I'm here to send 'em back to hell," he declared with all the entitlement of the heroic savior he thought he was, "Where they belong."

"Hell…" Godric muttered, his thoughts jumping tracks for the moment, "Where is hell, do you think?"

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me when you get there?"

Obviously having no interest in humoring Godric's trivial musings, the servant of His Holy Light made to charge forward and attack. But before he could travel even a step, the ancient boy was there. He stilled the hand wielding the stake in one effortless movement; the man's wrist gliding into his grasp like a baseball thrown into a catcher's ready glove.

"I can't allow you to do that. This nest is under my protection. And that is not a responsibility I take lightly."

"Yeah, well, my responsibility is to take you out. And I don't take it lightly either."

Then the soldier spit on Godric. The saliva was slimy and warm on the ancient boy's cheek, and he paid it little mind. Maybe he would wipe it off later. Maybe it would dry. Maybe he would die soon, and it would parish with him. That seemed oddly fitting- to die with spit on his face.

"If I give you my life, do I have your word you will only harm me and no one else?"

If he were smart, he would have lied. If he were wise, he would have seen the offer for the gift it was and accepted. But, as it turned out, the Soldier of the Sun was neither of these things.

"Fuck you!" came the answer.

Godric placed one hand around the man's jaw, and disarmed him with the other before lifting it to the base of the skull. His hold was tight and strategic, practiced and sure.

"I admire your bravery," he said, and then he twisted the neck swiftly to one side and snapped it.

The body went limp. The ancient boy dropped it, listening to the faint thud as it hit the carpeted floor. The killing was fast and efficient, which was preferable to Godric, and he barely spared the corpse a glance before the Soldier of the Sun's brief interruption was filed away with the thousands who had died at his hands- and almost, always _almost_, forgotten.

For a moment he let the images of his victims flash at him; the dead, the drained, and the tortured all converged together as if they were pages in a scrapbook of atrocity. One on a piano, another on a bed, twenty by the mouth of a cave, an entire army… The pictures continued, each one ranking worse than the last in whatever twisted moral code he clung to.

Somewhere along the line Godric lost count. Oh, well. The numbers were far too high to mean anything anyway.

Godric tucked the images away to find the body of the fallen soldier much closer than he remembered it being before. He looked down at himself curiously and realized his legs were no longer supporting him. Instead his body rested on the floor; tangled, flaccid, and useless.

The ancient boy tried to evaluate his physical state objectively, finding himself dizzy and unable to summon the strength to stand. He attributed it to the time of day in combination with the lack of blood in his system.

He permitted his head to loll to the side, his eyes downcast. What he wouldn't give for a window. Just one tiny pane of glass through which the sun could reach him. His end would be slow, excruciating, and wonderful in the muted rays…What would the others think when night fell again and they found him slumped against this wall…?

The body beside him could explain his peculiar position easily enough. But they would surely cry out for vengeance then. He'd already coaxed peace from them once. They would not concede to it again without some sort of struggle. Godric could not hold them off…forever.

Not if…

Didn't want…mutiny…

Temporary death, or something equally mind-numbing, claimed Godric then. But the nothingness was not long lasting. He opened his eyes dazedly, trapped in a state of pseudo consciousness in which he was both aware and unaware simultaneously.

The ancient boy had slid further down the wall, and he could feel the fibers of the carpet leaving an impression in his cheek. He considered attempting to right himself, but had no desire to move; had no desire for anything at all.

He glanced up at the silver chains gleaming in the corner of his eye. They were wrapped around the dead soldier's chest in an awkward crisscrossing fashion that the tenacious man had obviously strung together hastily in preparation for infiltrating the nest. Godric reached out with a heavy, unwilling arm and pressed his fingertips bemusedly against the caustic metal.

In the dead silence, he could hear the soft sizzling sound as it burned through his skin and into his flesh. He waited a beat before pulling a slight distance away. His fingers remained connected to the chain by thin, bloody strings of melted tissue.

Godric stared.

It was really rather beautiful.

A vague itching sensation on the roof of his mouth was the only sign his fangs wished to emerge. For most it was considered impossible to keep them retracted when coming in contact with silver. But, like many things generally considered facts in the vampire community, this no longer held true where Godric was…concerned.

At times…the ancient boy…

…Another night, another hour….

…unendurable.

"Godric?"

He was too far out of it to decide whether he'd actually heard the woman's voice calling to him, or if its' quiet twang was an echo from long ago, resounding back from someplace beyond the brink of his sanity. His mind was made up for him as she came into view (had his eyes been open all this time?) moving toward him down the hall. Her pace was brisk, her face anxious as she took in the way Godric lay so pathetically where he was.

It was a familiar face, he knew. It was nice to know. It was nice to be certain that their meeting had happened and settled somewhere inside his cluttered brain… Or did she merely resemble someone else he'd come in contact with over the years?

Human beings held fast to the idea that they were individuals; that they were each of them distinct and separate from the other, and no two could ever be alike. But 2,000 years of living among them had taught Godric differently. A pair of eyes, a nose, a mouth… it all blurred together after awhile.

Could she, then, be a dream? The ancient boy seldom dreamed anymore, but he was sleeping in such an unusual position… No, not sleeping. Dead. He was dead….How, then, could Godric have ever had a dream? Did the dead dream? But, no, he wasn't dead. He was- He was-

Godric's head began to spin in circles, careening out of control into an ugly mess of pandemonium. Words- trillions of words all in varying dialects from everywhere in the past and present combined- rushed through his depleted mind like a herd of wild horses on a path so beaten it could hardly be classified as a path at all anymore.

His expression contorted into a grimace, but he was beyond noticing.

_Stop, stop, stop. Please. Please stop. Oh, I'm tired…So tired… Please…_

_Focus. Focus. Focus on something, anything. The woman, the woman, pay attention to the woman…_

She was hurrying to get to him, but the concern that propelled her forward evaporated when her gaze fell on the corpse at his side. She halted, her eyes enlarged, and she swallowed laboriously. Her face was an exact replica of the one she had been wearing after she watched him kill Gabe in the basement of the church…

Oh, yes. So that was where they'd met.

She looked on the body in horror, until something skewered the direction her thoughts were fast racing down: the stakes; the silver chains wrapped around the supposed victim's abdomen.

Her eyes shone with equal parts disgust and anger as the scene before her took on another meaning than that which she had assumed at first glance. She raced to Godric, giving the fallen Solider of the Sun an unnecessarily harsh kick when his body obstructed her path.

"What did he do to you?" she asked, her hands twittering uncertainly over the ancient boy's immobile form, "Are you hurt?"

Godric stared at the blood drying on his recently healed fingertips- had there really been that much? Perhaps it was the bleeds- "No."

He made an effort to sit up. The effort was successful, but he was assaulted with a powerful wave of dizziness upon rising and bobbled drunkenly. The woman grabbed hold of his arm to steady him. Godric marveled at his own weakness; he really was in quite a state.

"Come on. It's light out. We need to find you a place to rest."

The ancient boy might have nodded.

His arm was looped securely around her slender shoulders and he did his best to help her heft him to his feet. They trudged slowly in some direction or other, her steps made sluggish by his. By the time it occurred to Godric that they had been a mere foot away from his sleeping quarters, they were long since past it.

"Stop here," he told her at the next door they came to.

She ceased walking and motioned toward the door with the arm that was not assisting Godric, "Here?"

"I believe so."

While she worked to open it, Godric contemplated the sun browned arm wrapped around him; the inconsequential, mortal body he leaned against. His physical self lied in this way too. He was, pound for pound, precisely what he appeared to be. None of the strength or power he possessed could be felt from the outside.

He could lift Eric by the ear if he so desired, yet she could support him.

He hadn't yet comprehended that they had stepped into the room when he heard the woman draw in a surprised breath.

"Hugo?" she questioned, and then in a harsher, sour tone, "What are you doin' here?"

A rumpled man slumped over on the edge of the coffin in the center of the room started and jerked upright. He blinked rapidly at the doorway until the fog of sleep cleared from his eyes enough for him to understand what he was looking at.

"Sookie, you-"

And then he saw Godric.

Words failed him and his jaw froze halfway open. As soon as the shock wore off enough for him to realize this, he snapped it shut; his gaze fixated on the ancient boy as if Godric were hovering a hair above his throat with his fangs out rather than fighting the urge to drop dead where he stood.

In spite of his best efforts, he felt himself start to sway languidly from left to right. His assistant took note of this a second after he did and strengthened her hold on him accordingly.

Hugo had been watching, "Is he…alright?"

He sounded baffled. He probably was.

"He needs help. Get out of the way."

Godric let the woman (Sookie, was it?) pull him along into the room for about five steps or so before stopping.

"Come on," she said encouragingly, assuming he was giving up, "Almost there."

Calling upon the impenetrable willpower that had seen him through 2,000 years of existence, the ancient boy straightened himself and ducked out from under her hold. He walked determinedly to the coffin, pretending not to notice when Hugo practically leaped to the other side of the room, and lifted the lid. Then he climbed inside and spread out in the cramped space which, right then, felt much larger than it actually was.

Godric peered up at the lid, completely spent, unable to fathom how he was going to reach up to shut it. But the woman who had helped him was standing over the coffin, the edge of the top already clutched between her fingers.

"Are you gonna be okay?"

"Soon," he replied, "Thank you."

"Oh, not at all. I mean, it's the least I could do after…" she struggled for words uncomfortably, and Godric remembered exactly what had motivated him to kill Gabe.

"…what you did for me." she finished, and her mouth pulled up into a bizarrely tense grin that made absolutely no sense when they both knew she was referring to her own near-rape.

"Goodnight," she said after a beat of silence, and then stumbled when she realized it was the wrong sentiment, "Er- good…day, I guess."

The coffin lid swung closed, encasing Godric in a dungeon of black he knew better than his reflection.

As he waited for death to claim him, he thought about the reality he would return to when he opened his eyes again. Though he had planned otherwise, he would have to withstand another night of existing. He wasn't angered by the idea, or even saddened. There was no remorse or relief. There was no…anything.

He thought of Isabel, and Stan, and all of the other vampires in his nest. He thought of how they looked on him with such devotion; of how they relied on him, and entrusted him with their lives. He thought of the vow he'd made to himself once upon a time to survive, no matter the cost.

He thought of Eric.

Godric tried with every ounce of his weary concentration to wade through the sea of numbness that had materialized around him like insulation from the world. He tried to reach above the black, empty submergence to grasp at some shadow of feeling. He wanted so badly at that moment to find something beyond indifference.

He wanted it for his nest, for his past self, for Eric.

But all he could pick up on was an obscure tingling of bitter, jaded disappointment. Like a human limb that had been twisted the wrong way for far too long.


	4. The Maenad

The hot, yellow rays of the Louisiana sun beat down on Sookie Stackhouse's kitchen table with the unbearable exactitude of a spotlight.

Maryann Forrester sat facing the window through which the light intruded with a bushel of frosty, maroon grapes sprawled out in front of her and a glass of straight vodka suspended in her left hand. It was ten o'clock in the morning in Bon Temps, but the humidity was already stifling. Maryann's skin, freshly showered not twenty minutes earlier, was fusing together unpleasantly at the juncture where her legs crossed beneath her sheer, silk robe.

"Karl," she beckoned to her servant, who was currently slicing pineapple at the depressingly small countertop a few feet away.

He peered up from his work with eager obedience, "Yes, Maryann?"

"Some ice," she ordered, thrusting her glass out toward him graciously.

"Of course."

Karl set the knife he had been using down on the cutting board and went to retrieve the bucket full of quickly melting cubes. Maryann frowned at their dismal size as they plinked softly into her drink; they would have to be refreshed soon.

Swirling the beverage around leisurely to cool the liquor, she listened with satisfaction to the commotion taking place upstairs. Tara and Eggs were awake at last. The thudding of their footsteps overhead was followed closely by indiscernible murmurs of conversation which slowly broke apart into words as they descended the staircase.

Maryann gave a broad smile at the sight of their bruised faces. The discolored splotches spanning across Tara's cheek and over Eggs' jaw were the birthmarks of divine rapture.

"Good morning," she welcomed cheerfully, toasting them with an offhanded extravagance that came off as entirely inappropriate in their quaint surroundings, "Don't you look positively radiant."

"We look like we got ran over by a semi last night," Tara grumbled, "Which, as far as I know, could be exactly what happened since I don't remember a thing."

The maenad plucked a grape free from the cluster on the table and sucked it greedily into her mouth. She wrapped the tiny fruit in the folds of her tongue, keeping it there until the frost had been lapped away and the icy temperature began to ebb. Then she whisked it back to a dark place between her molars and crushed it.

"Mmm…" she moaned, the chillingly sweet explosion causing her eyes to roll back in her head a little.

"What the fuck are you doin'?"

Maryann snickered, "No amount of pleasure is too small to relish in, Tara."

Karl started to hum as he scooped the slices of pineapple on to a serving tray with the rest of the delicacies he had arranged beforehand. His buoyancy contrasted so harshly with Tara's annoyance, the maenad felt her nerves tingle at the possibility of discord. She looked on hopefully as Karl balanced the serving tray on his hand and moved in closer to the aggravated girl to make his offering.

"Breakfast?"

Tara neglected to acknowledge the tray, putting a hand on her hip and gripping it so tensely the fabric of her shirt bunched around her fingers, "I'll pass."

Maryann rolled her eyes at this ridiculous display of restraint. She wished Karl would smash the fruit into Tara's face and shove her on to the tabletop. She imagined the way he would pin her down; how she would kick and scream in rage, causing the food and their dishes to topple to the floor; how those dishes would scatter in ambrosial disarray…

Alas, Karl was too ignorant to even sense that the conditions were right for such a skirmish. The fool turned his back on the marvelous opportunity and extended his handiwork out to the vastly calmer Eggs.

"Breakfast?"

This recipient was much more pleased with what he was being given, and he reached out to take a handful of kiwi.

"Thanks, Karl."

The glimmering pieces of ripe, green decadence were halfway to his mouth when he caught Tara's eye. She was glaring fiercely at him; a threat so awful brewing just beneath the surface that even he had to take notice.

He paused, "What?"

His obliviousness over what he was doing wrong only pushed Tara nearer to the edge. Maryann smiled again, her hope for trouble rekindled. A hot shower and a dash of unplanned chaos was the perfect way to start her day.

Seeing the negative change in the woman he most likely planned to climb into bed with later, Eggs slowly lowered the fruit and returned it to the serving tray. Then he raised both hands, exposing his palms to Tara in order to convey harmlessness. Given his personal history, he was quite familiar with this gesture.

The maenad was irritated with his attempt to cool the situation. The world was a much better place before the invention of words like "order" and "improper"; when punches thrown without any provocation and gratuitous sex were the norm instead of the exception.

Of course, she had to admit, this generation was more transcendent than those of years past…

Still, this particular case was crying out for her interference.

Maryann leaned back in her chair and shut her eyes. She concentrated, not on the Greek chants pounding through her head like beats on a tribal drum, but on the energy thickly contained in the tiny room; energy emitting from Tara, from Eggs, and Karl; energy emitting from the fruit and the vodka; energy emitting from the knife and the cutting board, and the air itself.

She took the energy, all of it, and pulled it to her. It twined in long, complicated ropes around her arms and down her spine until it belonged solely to the maenad, and she was free to shape it as she pleased. Bending and twisting and accentuating…and then sending it back out into the room (but never fully releasing it, of course) to reap the heavenly havoc as she commanded it.

It was a glorious thing.

Maryann watched gleefully as Tara landed a solid punch to Eggs' (already bruised) jaw that would begin the festivities. She laughed and danced around them as they hurled insults and drew blood from each other, and rage and lust became one and the same.

With their black eyes and their savage behavior, anyone in their right mind would have dubbed them possessed. And Maryann _did _possess them, but she did not create anything that wasn't already hidden somewhere inside them. All the maenad did was peel away the layers of conformity and oppression that society imposed on them, and strip them down to the bare essence of what they truly _were_.

The god would be pleased.

And now she could frolic with them no longer. She had sacramental business to attend to.

Namely, the sacrifice, Sam Merlotte…

As a being that thrived off of excess emotions, Maryann was more than a little prone to losing her head when things did not go her way. And the situation in Bon Temps was getting to be much more than she was willing to put up with.

How dare he! How dare that bar hick shifter be so selfish as to put his own interests above those of the god! How could the lord, Dionysus, choose such an unworthy lump of flesh as his one, true sacrifice?

Oh, look what he'd done! Now Maryann herself was being blasphemous.

_Forgive me, my lord. I want so badly to be with you. Oh, my love, it has been so long. When will you come to me?_

The maenad strode into Merlotte's Bar and Grill, the wind stirring around her in the wake of her fury. She yanked the ropes of the worthless patrons inside, gathering their energy and holding it taut.

"The god demands his sacrifice," she proclaimed with unshakable gravity, "Where is Sam Merlotte?"

Every eye in the place transformed into an unseeing abyss before Maryann could snap her fingers. They were, all of them, under her absolute and total control. And the irony of it was that Maryann sought to completely decimate any type of control whatsoever.

"He ain't been here all day," a red haired waitress supplied unhelpfully.

"He was talkin' about leavin' Bon Temps awhile back," a cook added from his post in the kitchen.

"No tellin' where he is," another man voiced, "He's the strangest son of a bitch in town."

The maenad was about to shut them all up and order that they bring her what she so desperately needed, but then the red haired waitress said something else in her black-eyed hypnosis that caught Maryann's attention:

"Not the strangest. Sookie Stackhouse can hear people's thoughts."

Maryann attempted to sound kindly curious, "Who?"

"Sookie Stackhouse," the waitress repeated enthusiastically, excited to have said something that captured her interest, "She reads minds. I've seen her do it to me. She's a waitress here too, but she's on a trip with that rotten vampire boyfriend of hers'."

"A telepath…"

Suddenly it all made sense to Maryann. Why she had found Sam Merlotte holding the statue of her god all those years ago… Why Tara had had the exorcism that drew her to Bon Temps… Why she had been led to believe Sam Merlotte was the one she was searching for... Why Sam had been so difficult to acquire…

It was all leading up to this moment; this wonderful, blissful moment of clarity in which everything was revealed to her.

Sookie Stackhouse was the one, true sacrifice.


	5. The Viking II

Eric's eyes flew open.

He jumped the boundary between completely inert and fully conscious seamlessly, as if there was no boundary separating the two contrasting states to begin with. It was the way all vampires arose to greet the darkness, and the Viking reveled in the lack of transition. Leaping from one extreme to the next without wasting anything in the tedious cross over suited him just fine.

But Godric's bed felt too empty.

At first he wrote it off as osmosis; the unsettling barrenness of the room permeating the mattress, and the sheets, and the pillow beneath his head. Except the mattress made way for the overwhelming size of his body too easily. The sheets were tucked under him too neatly. The pillow molded to the shape of his face too exactly…

All things considered, the vacant space beside him came as no surprise. The jolt of anxiety that tore through him at the sight of it, however, was startling.

It flooded directly into his core like a burst of acid; incinerating everything it touched with a burn so sharp in it's' intensity, it had Eric dressed and out the door before his vanity could even be bothered by donning the same ensemble he'd worn mere hours earlier.

He needed to see Godric.

He darted toward the cacophony of voices that met him only a handful of steps out the door. Their tenor was harsh, and Eric was relieved by the apparent severity. Surely this was where his Maker had gone off to.

The Viking slowed to a casual stroll as he made his way into what he supposed could be considered the 'living' room of Godric's lair. Now that he'd realized the cold impersonality of the bedroom, the quality pieces of furniture here only served to make the house seem less occupied.

Yet it could not have been more crowded.

Every available couch, chair, and table was overtaken by the Dallas vampires. Eric knew Godric lived in a nest, but he couldn't imagine all of these strangers were residents here. He thought some of them might have been at the celebration of the ancient boy's return. Then again, he hadn't been interested enough in the guests to be certain.

Out of the mass of unfamiliar faces, he was only able to search out his Maker's idiotic lieutenants, Isabel and Stan. They stood in front of the seats that were meant for them- too invested in their current argument to use them for sitting purposes.

Isabel must have felt the added pressure of his attention because her head swiveled away from the cowboy to look questioningly in Eric's direction. As soon as she saw him, she stopped mid-rant and began to wade through the cluster of bodies in order to reach him.

Stan, ever the quick study, figured out Isabel ditched him in pursuit of Eric a full five seconds later. But what time he lost in his confusion was more than made up for in his careless method of approach. While Isabel meandered cautiously around the vampires standing between them, Stan barreled through the gathering mercilessly.

It occurred to Eric (as he watched Stan knock someone insignificant to the floor) that he could make this easier on them by covering some of the distance himself. But why should he? They wanted to speak with him, not the other way around. In fact, Eric would much rather not have to carry on a conversation with them. Unless they could take him to his Maker, they were useless.

So Eric remained where he was, his outward appearance the perfect blend of impassivity and expectance.

Stan was the first to get to him.

"Well?" he pressed immediately, as if he had asked a question and Eric had taken too long to respond.

"Yes, I am. And yourself?"

"Where's he?"

"If I knew that, do you think I would be wasting my time associating with you?"

Isabel finally cleared the last crooked row preventing her from joining in the exchange then. And before Stan could shoot out a fiery retaliation, she burst forth with an uninformed query of her own.

"Is Godric with you?"

"No," Eric replied, annoyed at having to repeat himself, "We just covered that. And he's not with you either, seeing as you feel the need to ask."

So where _was _he?

The maddening anxiety which had eased slightly at the promising noises of discord returned with a vengeance. The acid erupted all over again; the resulting pain twice as extreme. Eric could not recall feeling anything like it in his thousand years.

_What __**is **__this?_

Stan looked at Isabel, "They probably took him again."

"There is no way Godric would-"

"They did it once-"

"And they did it again, but left one of their own dead, here, with all of his stakes intact and all of us sleeping soundly? _That _makes perfect sense, Stan. Why in the fucking world didn't I think of it?"

At once the dispassionate glaze that frosted over Eric's window into their foolish bickering disappeared. This mattered to him. This was important.

"What happened?"

He looked out at the ridiculously large crowd of vampires all grouped together around him. They would not congregate like that without cause. Something disastrous had happened from the time the sun rose to when it set, and because of it Godric was missing less than 24 hours after he'd returned home from the last abduction.

How could he have let this happen to his Maker? What kind of ungrateful excuse for a vampire was he?

Neither one of Godric's lieutenants was listening to him.

"Because you're always so damn focused on things addin' up. These are fuckin' humans. They don't have half the-"

Eric grabbed a fistful of Stan's ridiculous shirt; stealing whatever he'd been about to say right out of his mouth and crumbling the meaningless words into dust. He would not be ignored.

"What. Happened."

"Eric," Isabel said, glancing behind her to make sure the open display of aggression had gone unnoticed.

Her caution came with good reason. Godric had once told him vampires were like dominos when it came to violence. Once the first chip fell, it was only a matter of time, and not much of it, before the rest came toppling down as well. It was because of this that those who did not lose their heads actually wielded the most power.

But that token of wisdom was lost on Eric when the ancient boy was involved. At the moment, he didn't care if everyone else in the room tore their fangs out and choked to death on them. As long as he found his Maker.

"That's Texas business," Stan told him with his eyes glued to the hand clutching his shirt, doing a poor job of disguising his nervousness, "It's got nothin' to do with you."

"Well, I'm making it my business. Tell me."

"Stan is right," Isabel intoned, probably the first time she'd ever spoken those three words in that order, "We need to keep this contained in the Area for as long as possible. At least until we can consult with the Sheriff."

Eric wanted to hit something. Badly.

"But he isn't here to consult with. And given his absence is most probably tied to whatever catastrophe you're hiding, I suggest you share."

"I'm sorry, Eric."

The fact that her apology sounded genuine only riled the Viking further. He shook Stan roughly, grunting in frustration.

"I could torture the information out of you," he seethed.

"Eric," Isabel said carefully, "Don't."

And after a moment of self-reflection, in which he realized how close he was to losing it, Eric released the cowboy from his grasp.

He uncurled his fingers, letting the silky fabric slip through the hollow spaces like liquid. Then he took a step away from both of them. And another. And another. Until, finally, he turned his back on them all.

Eric felt as if his entire body had been filled with lead. Acid and lead…How very pleasant.

He slouched over to the wall nearest him and leaned his backside against it. Another lesson of Godric's: sometimes the best way to find out what you want to know is through simple observation.

That is when he saw Bill and Sookie enter into the room out of the hall right next to where he was standing. It was most likely the closest he'd ever come to being happy to see the two of them together. They brought something stabilizing to the room, completely unlike the stability his Maker provided him with, but still reassuring in its' own right.

He could picture them seated at a table in his bar. They lived in Louisiana. They lived in his Area. They were his in a way that all of the others present were not. They were part of his life, his world…

His world and Godric's. Once one and the same, now entirely different. It was a hard pill to swallow.

"What's all this?" Sookie asked Bill, who, upon seeing the crowd, had taken to gripping her hand in a vice.

"_This _is trouble," Eric answered, drawing both of their attention, "Shouldn't the two of you be blissfully spooning at the hotel about now?"

Seeing no better option, Bill reluctantly guided his human to stand along the wall with Eric.

"We were invited to spend the day," he explained, Eric thought a bit sharply.

Relations with Bill Compton had been deteriorating rapidly as of late, and the Viking was under no illusion as to why. The reason was currently attached to Bill's arm; her curled hair slightly mussed from sleeping, hiding ears that could hear every uncensored word wandering around inside the heads of all surrounding her- that was, if said heads belonged to human specimens, of course.

She was undeniably useful and, Eric grudgingly admitted to himself, occasionally fascinating. And he was curious about her. Often times, he was much more curious than any thousand year old vampire should be about a small town human waitress. And that was irritating.

But he wasn't about to curb his interest in her because she was Bill's. Nor would he neglect to take advantage of any opportunity to bring himself closer to her. And if that meant casting himself as an enemy in Bill's eyes, so be it. It wasn't as if his friendship was of any value to Eric anyway; he was already his Sheriff.

"Isabel offered…" Sookie elaborated, watching a particularly tense pair of individuals to the left of her warily.

Eric could see one of them in his line of vision- he had black hair and a diamond earring that was so large it rivaled Stan's hat in its' outrageousness. He didn't feel like expending the effort to rotate his eyes so he could see the other half of the equation.

Sookie didn't share his lack of concern, "They're not going to tear each other's throats out or something, are they?"

"No," Bill replied emphatically.

"Possibly," Eric countered.

The vampire with the earring looked over at them, leaving no doubt that he had heard the brief exchange. His fangs were out, and he snarled.

Misinterpreting the sound as one meant for her benefit, his friend (who turned out to be a woman) lifted her lips back over her teeth and reciprocated with her own growl before either Bill or Eric could react.

Eric shifted away from the wall, thinking again of the domino effect of violence. He had no idea what had everyone here so highly strung, but if fighting broke out he would eagerly participate. The raw anxiety brought on by the unknown whereabouts of his Maker was still eating at him, along with the frustration of being kept out of the loop, and an entire slew of other uncomfortable emotions he was utterly unused to feeling and did not wish to identify.

Given the chance to unload, he would seize it.

"Where's Godric?" Sookie asked suddenly.

"That seems to be the question of the month."

"Did anyone check the guestrooms?"

Eric looked at her.

His voice was low and seared with intensity, "Do you know where he is?"

For a fraction of a second, Sookie dropped his gaze. And that was all the answer he needed.

Eric glided in front of her in a movement so swift, she jumped. She was quick to recover, however, and, had the situation been less dire, the Viking would have been amused at the unconcealed contempt she harbored for him. But not right now. Not while his Maker was-

"Powell, Katherine, please."

Godric's voice rang out to the quarreling vampires next to them and seemed to carry throughout the entire room, leaving dead silence in it's' wake.

Eric didn't know how the ancient boy did it- projected his words in such a way to immediately draw the attention of all around him without yelling. It had been a puzzle to him for quite some time now, and, in his dimmer witted moments, he would purposely provoke Godric to see if he could get him to raise his voice. Afterwards, he would regret that decision so severely, it would be another decade before the challenge could convince him to try again.

When at last he did get his Maker to cry out, it wasn't in anger…

The snarling imbeciles broke apart from each other as if a whip had been snapped between them. They parted to reveal Godric, the missing leader whom everyone had been searching for, standing quietly in the midst of the raucous. How long had he been there without anyone knowing? With Godric, it was impossible to say.

Eric turned; gorging himself with the sight of him. He pulled the balm of his tranquility out to himself through the opening of his dilated pupils and used it to smother his anxious insides. But the relief was incomplete. Even as his Maker stood directly in front of him, an undercurrent of wrongness continued to smolder in the pit of his long-retired stomach.

The Viking felt no less on edge… no more assured in the fact that he would not lose everything…

_What __**is **__this?_

"Sheriff," the lady uttered beneath her breath as she put away her fangs.

Hers was the precursor to a chorus of exclamations all attempting to grab hold of Godric's attention. Dallas vampires had a reputation for being overzealous, and they were certainly living up to it. They reminded Eric of children, what with the way they swarmed around the ancient boy and trampled over one another's sentences.

_Pam should be thankful she stayed in Louisiana, _he thought with a momentary smirk.

Godric didn't respond to any of them. He stared out with steady, disinterested eyes that saw but did not absorb. Like rain pelting glass, their urgent babbling trickled off of him without once finding purchase. His tolerance never failed to astound Eric. How he was able to withstand such craziness and not even flinch was truly remarkable, and the Viking was sure that, no matter how long he lived, he wouldn't ever be capable of such a thing.

After a short while of futile rambling, Isabel emerged from the crowd. She waved everyone around her back with firm hands and a stern look that left them all ashamed. A great number of them hung their heads as if they were being scolded yet again for doing something they should know better than to even attempt by now.

"A member of the Fellowship of the Sun was here during the day," Isabel began to report to Godric when the masses had quieted enough to allow her to speak for them, "He was armed with silver and fourteen stakes. Stan found the body lying directly in front of your room. We thought…"

The Dallas vampires had elapsed back into deafening silence. Eric leaned forward, his face hardening with each word out of her mouth. He couldn't decide what he was more repulsed by: that despicable excuse for a church, or himself. He was _there_. He was laying _right there_ oblivious and dead while his Maker could have been being massacred. It was mind-rattling.

Isabel cast her eyes away from Godric as she trailed off; her own face briefly closing in on itself with the apparently painful feeling her unfinished statement brought to the surface. The fact that she seemed to sincerely care for the ancient boy improved Eric's critical opinion of her, if only slightly.

"The intent was clear," she pressed on, abandoning the murky ground of their conjectures in favor of a more factual reiteration, "But we've been unable to ascertain whether he was sent by the church, or came on his own accord. It would appear he was alone, since there have been no other bodies found, and everyone here has been accounted for."

Stan stepped in, "It was wearin' the stakes on a belt, and the silver was tangled up in it's shirt like some kind of fuckin' medieval crusader. The son of a bitch just about had it's head on backwards when I uncovered it."

Godric nodded, completely unfazed, "I know."

Eric blinked.

"What?" Stan demanded.

"I killed him."

The silence was broken by a gust of whispers that quickly transformed into a dull roar of speculation. It wasn't the murder itself that caused such a reaction- in Vampire mindset, the death of a human could scarcely be filed under the title of a crime- it was the knowledge that this human had wronged their Sheriff in a way which had warranted such a response from him.

Eric had to speak up to be heard over the noise, "Did he come after you?"

Along with the desired attention of his Maker, he also gained the focus of the entire room. The whole lot of them turned to stare him, their eyes narrowed and suspicious. Every one of them questioned his right to be here; questioned his right to speak to Godric. He could see them labeling him as something he never thought he would be in relation to his Maker, and yet it was true: Eric was an outsider.

"Who the hell are you?" the vampire with the earring mumbled resentfully.

The Viking tensed. This buffoon was getting on his last nerve…

"He would have come after any of us, had he been given the chance. There was no particular target."

Godric looked away even as he answered him. The rest were content to follow his example.

"But…" Stan said, sounding uncomfortably puzzled, "The body wasn't drained."

"I didn't say I fed from him," the ancient boy pointed out brusquely, and he raised one hand to press his knuckles gently against his temple.

It was a casual gesture to everyone else- possibly conveying hard thinking, or annoyance at Stan. But to Eric it was an old signal.

_Hush, _it told him, _now is not the time for your questions. Keep silent._

The cowboy was still confused, "How the fuck did you…?"

Finishing the words was unnecessary. Everyone knew he was referring to the impossibility of coming face to face with a fresh corpse and not sucking it dry. The pull was hailed as irresistible; the draw so strong no blood drinking creature could abstain from it.

Everyone knew except maybe Sookie, who was the only breather present at the moment.

She was handling all of this surprisingly well, Eric noted. Nothing that had been said here seemed to shake her in the least. Human reactions were vastly more apparent than vampire reactions as a rule. More often than not, circumstances which would send a blood bag into fits of hyperventilation would not stir any response in a vampire whatsoever.

But Sookie hadn't so much as cringed. It was almost as if she knew what was coming; as if she was expecting the news of the intrusion, as well as the resulting death at Godric's hands, and had already come to terms their happening…

It was an oddity Eric would bear in mind, to be sure.

"Practice," Godric explained to Stan matter-of-factly.

Eric didn't like the way Stan looked at Godric- like he was wondering if his Sheriff had lost his mind. Viewed in comparison to others of their kind, it was very strange that the ancient boy had the capability to walk away from a fresh body. And it was stranger still that he would possess the desire to master such a skill in the first place. But the Viking knew that his Maker had long since risen above comparison to the average vampire.

Now came the time to deem an appropriate retaliation for the invasion. The air around Eric buzzed with threats of vicious crucifixions and plans to slaughter the entire light-loving congregation. The Viking readily approved of these strategies- the Fellowship of the Sun had jeopardized the most important person in his life two times too many.

"There are twenty of us in this nest, not including myself," Godric said above the voices of the Dallas vampires, who were once again babbling, "If the Soldier of the Sun had succeeded in what he set out to do, twenty of our lives would have been lost."

He gazed out at everyone around him, seeming to meet each pair of eyes with his own before asking, "How many of their lives have we taken?"

In the seconds that followed, Eric was beside himself. Human lives were not a matter that concerned his Maker.

"Beyond their blood, human life has no worth to what we are," he had told Eric time and time again, "The sooner you realize it, the better off you'll be."

Yet this was the second time Eric had seen Godric show sympathy for them; first at the church, and now again at his own home. Eric felt the sense of wrongness that refused to fade intensify. What did it mean that the bedrock of his existence was contradicting the very principles that made Eric who he was? Had Godric begun to value human life? Was this the monumental change that Eric had been made privy to last night?

_What __**is **__this?_

The ancient boy looked down, an air of frustration coloring the motion.

"I will speak to the King," he said, "And Mr. Newlin as well."

Stan was furious, "What?"

"I can't imagine the Reverend would be willing to meet with you, Sheriff," Isabel added.

"If he is concerned with what an incident like this will do to his public image, and the image of the organization he represents, he won't have a choice."

"So that's it," the cowboy growled, "They sent someone in here to fuck us all to hell, and we're not gonna do a goddamn thing about it. We might as well save them the trouble and stake ourselves."

Godric looked at him.

Eric anticipated what his next words would be. Given his unabashed dislike for Stan, he was looking forward to seeing the ancient boy put him in his place.

But his Maker didn't say anything. No, he flicked his gaze in Stan's direction for a slightly elongated moment and turned away.

Eric blinked. Was Godric…he wasn't going to _let _Stan talk to him like that, was he?

Apparently he was.

"Any act of violence against the Fellowship of the Sun will not be tolerated in this Area," Godric told the masses.

And then, after letting the statement sink in, a dismissal, "You all may go now."

The crowd gradually began to dissipate. When the vampires in front of them started toward the exit, Bill followed suit; Sookie trailing reluctantly behind him. Eric sought out his Maker, who had vanished in the disorderly throng.

He spotted Godric surrounded by a continuously flowing band of well-wishers. It looked as though they were leftover subjects that hadn't had the opportunity to welcome the ancient boy home the night before.

"Eric?"

The Viking glanced at Sookie out of the corner of his eye. He didn't expect she would linger without her boyfriend. He wondered how long it would take for Bill to notice her absence… Knowing how paranoid he was about losing her, Eric didn't think it would take long at all.

"Are you stayin' here?" she asked.

He watched as one woman approached Godric. She was dressed solidly in yellow, and had her expression fixed up into a grin while she spoke to him. Her Sheriff nodded at whatever it was she said, then sent her on her way. Another man took her place, and Eric could already see the vampire who would replace him, and who, in turn, would step up after that…and so on…and so forth.

He looked elsewhere and started toward Sookie.

What he wore on his face in that instant was a mystery to him, but, as they walked out, she placed a hand lightly on his arm…

Eric was walking back to the Hotel Camilla with Sookie and Bill in tow. The night air in Texas was much drier than what he had grown used to in his own state, and he found himself breathing for the sake of fully experiencing the difference.

"We should make our return to Bon Temps tomorrow evenin'," Bill said.

Eric exhaled, "I'm not ready to leave yet."

"Your Maker is no longer in any danger. It's not wise for us to remain in Dallas when matters are so clearly strained."

"I'm not ready to leave."

"Then Sookie and I will go."

"No."

"Why?" he was angry now, "What purpose does that serve?"

"Your human gave me her word that in exchange for the release of her friend, Lafayette, and ten thousand dollars, she would assist me in Dallas for as long as I desired."

"She agreed to assist you in findin' the vampire Godric. Since he's been found, her pledge to you has expired."

"I wanna stay in Dallas," Sookie cut in abruptly.

Eric had had an inexplicable hunch that this would be the case. He smiled quietly to himself at having his suspicions confirmed.

Bill, on the other hand, was completely taken aback, "Sookie, did you not see the viciousness displayed in that nest tonight? This is no place for a girl like you."

"Oh, I saw it. But you heard Godric. He won't tolerate any violence."

"You really trust him?"

"I really do."

"Sookie, you barely know him."

"So what? I've only known you for a few weeks, and I'd trust you with my life. Besides, why would he lie about somethin' like that?"

"It's settled, then," Eric said, partially because they'd reached Sookie and Bill's hotel room, and partially because he could see Sookie was going in for a kiss, "I'll notify the hotel that we'll be staying longer than expected…unless you'd still like to return to Bon Temps tomorrow, Bill? I'll see to it that Sookie is well taken care of."

"Never."

Eric snickered.

"Have a nice night, Bill," he nodded, "Sookie."

And then he set course for the elevator…

The woman working behind the desk in the lobby had been replaced by a young man when Eric got downstairs. Probably in his late teens or early twenties at the oldest, he was awkward, jittery, and obviously inexperienced at his post- but he was no less pleased with the news of their extended stay than she would have been.

The Viking had sampled the woman once, upon her request, on his second night here. Reading the new employee's transparent body language all too easily, he knew that he need but speak the words and this pitiful little human would gladly accompany him back to his room as well.

Eric gave his prospective dinner an appreciative scan. He did have good veins…

But, ultimately, he reconsidered. There was only one type of blood he had an appetite for tonight, and it was over 2,000 years old and not even remotely human. The new employee was far too skittish for Eric's tastes anyway.

Once inside his room, Eric sat down on the bed and pulled out his cell phone to check for messages. There was a text from Pam updating him on business at the bar, and informing him of her successful transaction with Lafayette concerning the V. He replied with an update of his own; letting her know his Maker was safe, but she and Chow would have to look after things on their own for awhile longer regardless.

She would probably be annoyed at him for not providing a more specific timeframe, but Eric didn't have one to provide. Sookie and Bill had served as a welcome, if brief, distraction from…whatever _this _was that was going on with Godric. However, now, alone, the nagging sense that something was not right was louder than ever.

He had no clue how long _this _was going to last. How long would it be before he recovered from the idea that he could lose his Maker? Before he could leave Godric's side and not be tormented by this acidic anxiety? What would it take to put this madness to rest?

_What __**is **__this?_

Eric got up and stripped himself of his clothes; he hoped a shower would cleanse his mind…

After trying to convince himself there was no logical reason to return here tonight and failing miserably, Eric found himself wandering through the winding corridors of Godric's nest once again.

With the exception of a small cluster of conversationalists by the hearth (none of whom was his Maker), the 'living' area had thankfully cleared out. Everything contained in the space was prim and polished; the neutral tones of the layout were spotless, revealing nothing of the earlier frenzy. The Fellowship of the Sun could say whatever they wanted about vampires and their kinship to Satan, but no one could call the fanged population sloppy.

"Your Sheriff," Eric requested of the cluster.

It felt inadequate- having to ask for the location of his Maker from someone else. He shouldn't need verbal instructions. Any non-defective progeny would _know_-

Eric stopped that thought dead in its tracks. He could not think about that. He refused to think about that.

The shrunken group regarded Eric with the same narrowed, suspicious eyes the larger one had. Already on shaky ground, the Viking had to fight the compulsion to defend his right to see Godric. He knew that telling them off would only make it seem as though they'd made him feel threatened. And he was not threatened. At all.

"That way," one of the less suspicious ones directed, swiveling to point behind herself, "Second door on the right."

Eric took off as per her instructions; entering another hallway separate from the path Godric had led him down last night. Just like that one, this new passage was lined with countless rooms, and he was happy to stop a mere two doors in. It seemed as though the nest was every bit as much a hotel as the Camilla. Or maybe 'maze' might have been a more accurate description.

Expecting another bedroom, Eric was surprised when the thick slab of oak swung out of the way to reveal a chamber for conferences. His Maker was seated at a rectangular table with none other than the buffoon and his outrageous earring across from him. Upon seeing their expressions, the Viking immediately regretted his decision not to knock.

"You again?" the buffoon protested, "What are you, some kind of spy?"

His voice was unexpectedly rusty. Its' raspy tenor, when viewed in combination with his otherwise airbrushed, urbane appearance, was the only thing appealing about him.

He pushed his chair away from the table and leapt agilely to his feet, catapulting himself toward Eric.

"Powell, it's fine," Godric said evenly, "Eric is mine."

_Eric is mine._

The claiming, so sudden, so simple- words he'd heard a million times before and had always loathed- resonated through him so loudly, he became deaf to everything else. Only with the utmost distance did he absorb Powell's reaction. Only with the most minuscule piece of his consciousness did he see the buffoon whirl around in shock.

"You… You're a Maker, Sheriff?" he said, staring at Eric again, as if searching for some sort of similarity to Godric he'd missed, "You've never spoken of him."

"He prefers to speak for himself. Would you excuse us for a moment, Powell? We can finish this discussion later."

"…Sure."

The door clicked shut after him.

"You've always had a knack for rubbing others the wrong way," Godric muttered at Eric when it had gone noiseless.

"I'm an acquired taste," the Viking quipped, but were you to ask him at another time, he wouldn't recall saying it.

"Eric is mine," he quoted, his voice curling around the phrase hypnotically.

A sigh, "I know you hate it, but-"

Eric moved. He crossed the space between him and his Maker as if it had never been there in the first place. In the next second, he was kneeling beside Godric's chair; their faces within an inch of each other.

"No."

He leaned in, touching his forehead to Godric's, "Say it again."

A heavy silence.

"Please… _Please_, Godric."

Eric didn't even notice he'd slipped into his native tongue until Godric's answer came back in his own, slightly accented version of it.

"You…are mine."

Eric's mouth fused with Godric's.

He reached out to grasp his Maker's face with both hands, his fingers roaming frantically over the old dimensions. Desperately, they smoothed over the familiar features; tracing, and retracing, and then starting over again. His thumbs caught against his cheekbones, slowing almost imperceptivity before dipping down into the softness of the hollow. His palms ghosted over his temples and brushed across the ends of his hair. His eyebrows, the shape of his ears, the set of his chin…

All the while his lips were working. Fiercely, they enveloped his Maker's in every single way they possibly could. At first it was with unconditional delicacy; his mouth parted to cushion Godric's top lip between both of his, scarcely sucking at all, not permitting himself the barest hint of a taste. He treated the bottom with the same unbearable gentleness before very gradually increasing the pressure of his kisses, occasionally letting the edges of his teeth snag lightly against the supple border.

But never his fangs. No, Eric was too focused on the ancient boy for them even to escape.

It seemed an eternity before he'd used his lips sufficiently enough to allow the introduction of his tongue. Reverently, the tip swept the edges of his Maker's mouth; slipping over every drop of the slick surface before daring to delve inside. The instant he felt Godric's tongue meet his, his entire core flipped on its' side. A sound unbelievably deep and guttural emitted from somewhere in his chest.

Nothing would ever, could ever, taste that good.

Only when the lack of contact became physically painful could he bring himself to release his Maker's face. He didn't waste a touch; caressing Godric's neck, his clothed shoulders, every curve of his arms… All the way down to his wrists Eric's hands ran, and then lingered on the backs of the hands of his creator.

Gingerly, Eric's fingers twined themselves in the spaces between Godric's. He broke the connection of their mouths to faintly peck the lids of his Maker's closed eyes as he coaxed the ancient boy from his chair with their interlocked hands. The Viking's own eyes squeezed shut with the amount of feeling shooting through every fiber of what he was.

Nothing would ever, could ever, mean this much.

And yet it was nowhere near enough. He could worship Godric's body for hours on end, for every second of the thousand years he'd graced this earth, and it would still be beneath them.

He wanted to consume his Maker; to swallow him whole. He remembered how, centuries ago, before the words 'vampire' and 'politics' had even been dreamed into existence, he would lie on his back -staring at the endless ebony sky- cursing the cruelty of the universe for placing them in separate bodies.

Godric let him pull him to the floor, and then they were both kneeling.

Eric tugged him close; tugged him until their knees were touching. His hands were running again. They were quick to take full advantage of everything the chair had restricted. His Maker's chest, his Maker's sides, his Maker's back…especially his back.

Nothing would ever, could ever, feel like this.

Unable to refrain any longer, Eric crushed his body against the ancient boy's. His fangs snapped down upon impact…

And instantly retracted.

Godric's body wasn't responding to his at all. He could not have been softer.

Eric drew back, staring at his Maker in bewilderment. The Viking tried not to be offended. It was his fault. It had to be. But where had he gone wrong? What hadn't he done? Was he just…not _doing it _for Godric anymore? What was he supposed to make of that?

The ancient boy refused to meet his eyes. He unwrapped himself from Eric's arms and stood, straightening his clothes firmly.

"You shouldn't be here," he said.

Eric watched Godric's back as it disappeared into the hall.

And the door clicked shut.


	6. The Blinded Lover

A broken piece of stained glass burst to powder beneath the heel of Isabel's shoe.

She had tried to bypass the messy remains of the shattered vase, but her judgment was flawed. The floor was littered with crooked fragments extending far past anything she thought to prepare for. Their jagged edges made the entryway into Hugo's apartment appear cracked and splintered where before it had always seemed solid.

Isabel lifted the offending foot; taking in the splatter of rubble below it morosely.

Even with the motivation of collecting her belongings, convincing herself to come here had not been easy by any stretch of the imagination. The option to go out and simply buy replacement items for the things she left behind was more appealing than she would ever admit. But she was already the laughingstock of the nest for being outsmarted by a human. She certainly didn't need anymore humiliation to add to her shame, least of all as a result of her foolish entanglement with the perfidious lawyer.

So here she was, attempting to break the ties that bound her to Hugo Ayres as quickly as possible; trying to pretend the process was as painless and mundane to her as throwing out a soiled carton of milk that had gone bad before it was empty.

If only it could be that uncomplicated.

But the wreckage of the vase pricked at wounds which were too fresh to be ignored by someone possessing so much as an ounce of sensitivity. And the blinded lover was sensitive.

She found herself on her hands and knees, piling the larger pieces of green-tinted glass together out of the way of the entrance. There was no rhyme or reason to the action. Godric already told her what he'd decided to do with Hugo, and he was never coming home again.

Still, Isabel felt driven to erase the evidence of their last altercation. She'd been furious, and he might have deserved every bit of that fury, but looking back on it made her feel guilty.

She should not have hit him.

Yes, he hurt her. Yes, he took advantage of her trust. Yes, he betrayed her affection, and almost got Sookie killed along with himself. Yes, he did it all for completely selfish reasons. And, worst by far, because of him the Dallas vampires could have lost Godric.

Yes, yes, yes.

Nevertheless, none of those things gave her the right to lash out the way she did.

Once Isabel had all of the clearly visible shards pushed to the side, she began to sweep the floor for less obvious remnants of the vase. The side of her right hand skimmed the floor, brushing the scattered fragments into the palm of her left to be disposed of.

She pictured the trash bin that Hugo kept tucked away under the sink in his tiny kitchen. It was made of black plastic with a lid that was supposed to spring up whenever someone stepped on the pedal jutting out at the bottom. But the top snapped off sometime before Isabel met him, and the lid she saw in her mind's eye was held on by sporadically placed strips of metallic duct tape.

The blinded lover was jerked from the fantasy of the kitchen back to the reality of the doorway by a sudden, sharp sting. Isabel's wounded hand whipped up into the air reflexively; revealing what she already knew to be a chip of glass sliced into the side of her littlest finger.

She immediately dropped the fragments she had gathered in the palm of her other hand to pull the glass out before her finger healed itself around it. It would be twice as difficult to remove then, and cause a lot more pain than the measly cut was worth.

The translucent bits of vase sprinkled everywhere. Just like that, her work was nullified as if she'd done nothing at all.

Isabel successfully plucked the chip from her finger; staring at the trace amount of crimson on one of its' uneven edges while she sucked the mending gash into her mouth. Something about it angered her immensely.

She couldn't figure out what it was exactly. It had something to do with how the injury had occurred. She only began to clean up the glass because she felt guilty for treating Hugo badly. For no other reason than out of her own kindness was she doing this, and once again her misguided compassion brought her nothing but harm.

Isabel rose to her feet, and threw the tainted glass chip down with the rest as she charged into the apartment. The popping sound they made beneath her stride was abruptly very satisfying.

Without pausing by the bloodstained sofa, or even turning in the direction of the tiny kitchen, she headed straight for the bedroom.

Hugo insisted on keeping the door closed, and the room always had an aroma distinct from the rest of the place because of it. It wasn't an unpleasant scent. Hygiene wasn't a practice he struggled with. But it smelled of leather briefcases, and fresh paper, and the coffee/cinnamon roll breakfast combo he ate in bed first thing in the morning. And Isabel stopped breathing.

The bedspread was in uproar. The navy comforter was curled over on itself with the sheets oozing off the mattress on the left side. At the start of their relationship, Hugo's blankets had been largely consisting of deep gray shades and the occasional forest green. After dating her for a few months, his choices began to migrate towards lighter tones that would show the evidence of any blood exchanged there quite proudly.

It seemed a bit sadistic to her, and she'd told him as much. But he justified himself with explanations about how the stains represented their connection to each other; how they reminded him of her during the day, when he would inevitably wake up to find her gone, and she couldn't find it in her heart to argue with that.

She was a fool.

On the nightstand was a lamp with a rounded base. The shade was off center- tilted just barely too far to the left to be symmetrical. Beside it a tall, digital alarm clock was flashing the wrong time in ostentatious, red numbers. Hugo wouldn't have been able to read it any other way. As he'd demonstrated to her on multiple occasions, his eyesight was hopeless without contacts.

The blinded lover spotted the necklace she was looking for draped around the corner of the clock. It was one of her favorites; a choker of rubies interwoven together by a delicate web of yellow gold. It had been a gift from Stan, oddly enough.

She was surprised to see, however, that her choker was not the only ornament hanging from the clock, as it was the last time she saw it. Instead the makeshift hanger was balanced by a wristwatch that now coiled over the opposing side of the clock. It was one of Hugo's favorites; a watch with a wide wristband of black leather and a silver face that she'd accidentally come in contact with so many times, he stopped wearing it.

Isabel fingered the gems on her left-behind piece of jewelry tentatively, but, she realized as she eyed the wristwatch, she could not bring herself to take it from its perch. A still moment passed, and she turned to the closet in hopes of starting with something more detachable.

Her hopes were doused instantly at the sight of the open closet doors. Hugo's countless dress shirts poured out of them on an array of hangers as diverse as the shirts themselves were in color. The evening gown she wore on their sixth month anniversary, the pencil skirt he spilt wine on, the endless sets of lacy lingerie she'd purchased with him forefront in her mind… They were all tied inseparably to this place.

Ultimately, she could not bring herself to touch a single thing…

"I'm outta here."

Isabel was standing with her hands on her hips, watching Stan throw various possessions into a garbage bag for transportation. Godric's decree of peace towards the Fellowship had been the straw that broke the proverbial camels back, and now the cowboy was taking off in search of greener, more violent pastures.

"You can't just go without providing any sort of notification," she said exasperatedly.

"Watch me."

"We're under-"

He tossed a belt so it hit her in the shins, "I don't give a fuck what we're under."

"Fine," she snapped, nudging the belt away with the toe of her shoe, "Deal with the legal system however you like."

She spun around to see Godric exiting the conference room, probably having just finished squaring things away from his meeting with Powell. He heard Stan slam a pair of boots into his bag with excessive force, and looked to her in askance.

_He's leaving,_ she mouthed to him, _Again._

Her Sheriff closed his eyes for an abnormally long second before gradually making his way over to them.

"Stan," he said.

"Don't talk to me. I'm movin' out."

"I wish you wouldn't."

Stan growled, "I don't give a fuck what you wish!"

"Alright," Godric replied neutrally, and then he fell silent.

Isabel followed the ancient boy's lead, observing Stan's temper-tantrum packing without further comment. It took a matter of minutes for the painfully undisciplined show to grow stale. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms unhappily about her midsection, glancing conspiratorially at Godric.

But he wasn't paying attention to either her or Stan.

His eyes were averted toward the door he had just come out of; gazing at it with some sense of weak anticipation, as if waiting for it to open. She would chalk it up to Powell still being inside, but she saw him leaving on her way in. Godric must have forgotten something else…or some_one _else.

Her thoughts traveled automatically to Eric.

In all the time she'd known Godric, Isabel had never met his child. It was pure coincidence that she even knew of his existence at all. The result of an offhanded suggestion she'd made to Godric once that siring a new vampire would help alleviate the languor which seemed to plague him more and more frequently.

"Why not create?" she had proposed, "Pass some of your knowledge off on another. You would be an excellent Maker, and through the eyes of someone so recently alive, the world would be rejuvenated."

Isabel's logic was heavily influenced by her own reasons for fraternizing with humanity. At the time, she'd just begun her relationship with the perfidious lawyer, and was basking in his zest for life. How little it took to excite him…how mystified he was by what she was, by what she could do…

Sometimes, when you lived on Mount Olympus, it was easy to forget you were a god.

Her Sheriff had responded with a slight smirk, the first she could remember seeing on his face in weeks.

"Thank you. But I have already forgone the path of the Maker."

She was surprised, and her expression communicated it. She hadn't seen or heard any mention of Godric's progeny until that moment. Was it possible the ancient boy's foray into procreation had been as disastrous as hers?

But then he said, "His name is Eric. He was living in Louisiana the last I heard. The Sheriff of Area Five. He owns a bar there, among other things."

Isabel was quiet for a short while. She tried to imagine him- this child of Godric that she'd never known existed.

"I would like to meet him," she decided.

The hint of a smirk returned to Godric's otherwise unanimated face, "I don't think you would."

The subject was not brought up again, and then Godric disappeared.

And she knew she had to contact him.

Provided the seemingly distant nature of their relationship, Isabel hadn't expected Eric to react very strongly to the news of his missing Maker. But she was wrong. He flew into Dallas with a telepath in tow, presuming to lead the rescue mission.

Whatever idea of Godric's child she'd been formulating in her head flew out the window the instant she laid eyes on Eric. Her Sheriff, as always, had been right. In hindsight, she wasn't entirely sure she didn't regret making Eric Northman's acquaintance. He certainly acted as though he regretted making hers.

But it was too late for regrets now.

Godric's focus shifted back to Stan then, drawing Isabel out of her reverie. She watched the cowboy bag a couple of knickknacks in a vastly cooler manner than he had been using before. It seemed to her that the ancient boy debated walking away for a moment; he appeared to lean outside of the scene in front of him, and his head tilted marginally to the right- as if to give them his cheek.

However, the moment died so quickly she could very well have just imagined it.

"Stan, you're needed here," he said in the next.

"Bullshit. I'm not needed for nothin'. You and you're pansy-ass peace can get on just fine without me. Waste of motherfuckin' fangs…"

"An order of peace does not make it a guarantee. Most everyone is as infuriated with the Fellowship of the Sun as you are. When the outbreaks begin, I will need you to smother them, and see to it that those involved are not tempted to disobey again."

Stan slowed his movements, holding one item suspended in the air as he turned to look at Godric. The enticement of battle looming on the horizon, and the promise of handing out punishment to anyone in the wrong, caught his interest and trapped it in an iron chokehold.

Isabel dropped her head to hide her smile. Of course Godric's words would have been absolutely honest somewhere else, and there was always the possibility of some deranged nitwit with an enlarged ego passing through, but the thought of someone disobeying him was mostly laughable. She had seen with her own eyes how deeply those under his jurisdiction respected him; how lost they were when he vanished. She herself knew with more certainty than ever that there was nothing she wouldn't do for him.

Luckily, Stan's respect for Godric only ran as deep as a puddle, and he was not one to acknowledge that someone within the confines of the universe may feel differently.

"You are the best I have militarily," Godric went on, taking advantage of the intrigue he'd ignited, "You don't hesitate to act. You are as ruthless as you are frightening. You _are _a vampire, Stan. And you see everything as a true vampire would. There is real value in that."

When Stan's pissed off pout split into a devilish grin, Isabel knew the ancient boy had him…

Isabel was hovering over the kitchen counter with a compact mirror in her right hand. She pressed a finger up underneath the bottom of both of her eyes, trying to clean up her face after what had been a long and taxing night. The lighting was good here, much better than most of the bathrooms.

As she pushed some loose strands of hair back from where they had escaped, her mirror captured the reflection of Godric (who had opted to come with her after things were squared away with Stan) on his way to the refrigerator. He swung it open, reached inside, and came away with a bottle of Tru Blood in his grasp.

A lot of the others in the nest turned their noses up at the sight of their Sheriff drinking synthetic, but it didn't bother Isabel. Diet was a personal choice, and if he didn't want to feed solely off human blood, then that didn't make him any less the leader he was.

It was rather hilarious, though, to watch him try to consume it without making a face.

Isabel drank quite a bit of Tru Blood herself when Hugo wasn't around, and it would never win an award for Best Taste from the American Vampire League. She could only wonder how much worse it must be for a vampire as old as Godric who had been thriving off the real thing for thousands of years. Of course his body would reject it.

Why did he continue to subject himself to it? Well, for the same reason he chose not to drain the Solider of the Sun, she guessed.

She listened to the twist of the cap, the soft _plink_ as it released the mouth of the bottle, and waited for the sound of the microwave opening. But it never came.

Closing her compact, she cast her eyes behind her to find her Sheriff raising the cold blood to his lips.

"Godric," she said, "At least heat it before you..."

But he only threw the bottle back and filled his mouth with the chilly imitation of life. His cheeks swelled slightly with the liquid; his eyes squeezed shut in revulsion; his brow tugged as low over the crinkled lids as it could get. And then, with a nearly imperceptible swing of his arms, he made himself swallow.

Isabel watched him repeat this process three times, at which point he carried the bottle over to the sink with the clear intention of pouring the rest of it out.

"You should eat more than that. Just warm it up first. Did they give you anything while you were being held at the church?"

Godric turned the Tru Blood upside down over the drain. He stared at the burgundy fluid as it chugged in generous increments into the basin.

He did not answer her.

"Sheriff?" she questioned.

The ancient boy continued to hold the bottle above the drain, though the blood was no longer coming out. His eyes bore into the sink as if entranced. Even from her view of only the right side of his face, all of his features were pulled taut in concentration.

Isabel moved so that she stood behind him, and placed her hands on his shoulders.

"Godric," she whispered, moving her thumbs in a circular motion that had always soothed her son in her human life, "It's empty."

Finally, she felt him take in a breath.

"I know," he said, slowly rotating his wrist to right the bottle and then setting it aside.

After another minute, he turned around and she let her hands fall.

"You are a good friend to me, Isabel," he told her with a disquieting somberness, "I appreciate you."

"I have no intention of leaving, so your compliments are unnecessary. Not to mention undeserved. I should have known Hugo was working for the Fellowship. We were together so much of the time, how could I not have seen…or heard…? It doesn't make any sense. You should punish me for my ignorance."

Though she tried her best to stay withdrawn from the words, her voice had grown softer and softer as she spoke. Her throat tightened, and then she was fighting bloody tears.

"I am a fool," she admitted aloud with a broken voice.

Godric shook his head, "You are kind, and intelligent. With the right people surrounding you, you would make a fair Sheriff. And if anything ever happens to me-"

"Nothing is going to-"

"If anything ever happens to me, I want you to take my place."

The knot in Isabel's throat loosened, and suddenly it was extremely dry.

A/N: Credit for the title of this chapter and Isabel's 'title' in this story (The Blinded Lover) goes to DarkAngel620. Thank you so much for being so wonderfully insightful. BelleAngeli- thank you also for your awesome suggestions. I was truly touched when I got a response back from you guys. And thank you to everyone else who has reviewed this story. Feedback means the world to me.


	7. The Ancient Boy II

It was here that Godric asked to die.

Standing just outside the Fellowship of the Sun church grounds, in plain view of a sign proclaiming this to be the threshold of the Light of Day Institute, he volunteered to be the fuel for the congregation's much anticipated holy bonfire. Mr. Newlin was extremely incredulous of him, and even more so of his suicidal offering. But he was not skeptical enough to deny Godric the fate he'd chosen.

It had been easy then- to slip away from the nest nary a question as to where or why. He would often stray two, occasionally three times a night to be by himself. The only thing unusual about his leaving that specific evening was he did not plan to come back; a fact universally unknown by everyone outside his own head.

He didn't think slipping away would be quite so effortless anymore, if what he'd gone through tonight could be used as any indication of the future. Lying was his only hope of escaping his nestmates' tireless company.

He told them he was going to meet an AB negative blood donor who preferred to be fed on in the comfort of their own home. Only Isabel had been in his presence enough recently to suspect foul play, and Godric pretended to admit to her that he was really going to see Eric.

But, of course, there was no truth value to that either.

The rustle of footsteps on the freshly mowed lawn alerted him to the Reverend's approach.

Usually, Godric would wait for the human party to verbally announce their proximity before reacting to it. Doing so put them more at ease; gave them a false sense of normalcy to build off of. In this instance, however, it would serve the desired end result best to catch him off guard. And the end result was all that mattered, after all.

"Mr. Newlin," Godric said, "You are alone, I assume."

His gaze panned across the open grass, taking in the nearing form without the pretense of blinking.

This Mr. Newlin was a different breed of man than the white-suited bigot he remembered. This was a man soured by humiliation, and hardened by an overwhelming resentment that was no longer merely directed at Godric for what he was. From the moment Godric dropped him on the floor of the church and walked out, to the moment the Reverend stepped outside to meet him on this very night, the resentment had become personal.

Mr. Newlin froze unwillingly, and then scowled.

"I'll _never_ be alone in the Light of the Lord."

As he came to stand before Godric, he placed his hands in the pockets of his (black) suit jacket. His weight was distributed equally between his feet; his stance reeking of a desperate sort of pride. A tightly clenched jaw highlighted the tendons in what was visible of his neck, and, once the scowl had been planted, it put down roots and settled obstinately on his face.

The Tru Blood he consumed the previous night made the ancient boy alert enough to realize all of these details. He also registered a trace of distaste casting over his unending indifference. He did not like Mr. Newlin very much.

Godric inclined his chin slightly, "One of your soldiers made an attempt to slay my nest. Did you know of it?"

"Slay?" the Reverend gave a breathy chuckle, "Now, I don't know about you, but I don't believe you can kill somethin' that's already dead."

"I didn't ask what you believed. I asked what you knew."

The material of the suit jacket ruffled, betraying the motion of the hands inside. Godric wondered if there was silver hidden in those pockets, or perhaps even a miniature stake. He wondered if this man would try to end him. He wondered if he would bother to stop him if he tried.

"You want to know what I know?" Mr. Newlin echoed, "You want to know what _I know_?"

His eyes sparked like matches set aflame, "I know who you are. I know what you do when the media is lookin' the other way. I know the screams of _terror_ that've rang in your deaf ears every night for _2,000_ years. I know every gallon of blood that has been stolen to sustain your _damned _hide. And I _am_ going to annihilate _every last one of you_ until there aren't any left to defile the face of God's good Earth!"

The Reverend was flushed red. His hands left his pockets in the excitement of his speech and were trembling spasmodically. They reached for Godric, grappling at the innocent air when they could not have him.

The same words that awakened such energy in the preacher drained the ancient boy past the point of exhaustion. The synthetic sustenance he forced upon himself seemed to vaporize into useless gas in his faulty bloodstream. He felt like he had been starving since the day he was born.

Terror, and blood, and annihilation, and eternity.

Terror, and blood, and annihilation for eternity.

Terror, and blood, and annihilation were eternity.

He drooped, lifeless, "Why does it never stop?"

The Reverend went on speaking; every note a pitch of an old tune that began playing at the dawn of mankind and carried on still. The ancient boy could not stand to hear it anymore.

Instead, Godric inspected the ground beneath his feet. The moon was a little less than full, and it both illuminated and dulled the hue of the individual blades sprouting up from the dirt. The leaflets folded so considerately around the shape of his shoes. He could imagine exactly how they would feel under the sole of his bare foot- forever smooth and un-calloused in spite of eons of abuse.

He didn't want to be here any longer. He lifted his head.

"Steve. Look at me, Steve."

The Reverend's eyes snapped to Godric's, halting the feverous vibrations of his overused vocal cords. Contact was established. Godric took advantage of it, and ensnared Mr. Newlin's thought processes in a web of his construction. The man was informed enough to fight the capture.

"Don't resist," Godric impelled, "Everything is fine. I only need you to answer my questions, and then I will give your mind back to you. Will you answer my questions, Steve?"

"Y-yes…"

"That's good, Steve. Do you know who invaded my nest?"

"Yes."

"What was his name?"

"Luke McDonald."

"Did you send Luke?"

"No. He went on his own. He wanted to prove his loyalty."

"His loyalty to your God?"

"To me."

"You were aware that he intended to destroy us, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Yet you sent no warning?"

"I prayed he'd finish you all."

Godric paused, "I want you to think about when I came to you, offering myself for your ceremony… Did you tell anyone what was said between us?"

"My wife."

"Only your wife?"

"I lied to everyone else."

"What did you tell them? That you took me by force?"

"That I shot you with silver bullets."

"How many times?"

"Four."

"I think you shot me more than that, Steve."

"…Five times?"

"Eight. Twice in the right leg, five times in the back, and once through the neck."

"Wow," the Reverend grinned.

The ancient boy beamed, "You were pleased with yourself when I hit the ground. There was very little blood spatter. You wanted to take me then, but you were out of bullets, and you didn't have anymore silver on you. You couldn't risk my healing and attacking you on the way to the basement, could you, Steve?"

"No way. We get shipments of silver chains that we handout anonymously to vamp drainers. Did I get some of those?"

"You did. But by the time you came back, my body pushed half of the bullets out. That's when you decided to say you shot me four times instead of eight, because you didn't want it to sound like overkill. Does your wife like you using a gun?"

"No."

"It's a good thing you lied to her, then."

"I lie to her all the time," Mr. Newlin assured him…

Godric left the Fellowship of the Sun with all of the information he needed. None of what the Reverend had to say was exactly surprising to him, but it was possible the King of Texas would see it differently. The ancient boy's perception of the world and the events that unfolded within it rarely dovetailed with anyone else's these days.

He moved at a careless pace down one of the city's many sidewalks. The passage of the regularly placed streetlights and the occasional straggling vehicle were the only signs of that motion, really. The pendulum swinging of his legs wasn't something he truly felt. It was just happening.

Habitually, predictably, continually happening… Like the elusive day, and its' overprotective sibling, the night. And the night's many twin brothers of darkness. Godric thought he'd mingled with them all.

At one point, this level of removal from his physical self might have worried him. It seemed natural now- to inhabit without presence. Who would have thought?

There was a paperclip on the cement. It was wedged into a crack, standing straight up as if to make a statement. Chewing gum that had been gnawed and spat out was re-solidified into amorphous glue around the wire fastener. The gum most probably began its' journey a light pink, but it appeared brownish from exposure.

Godric knelt, pulling the paperclip up from its' entrapment. The gum held on to it by thin strings that reminded him of his flesh against silver. He bent his head and took the rotten strands between his teeth, biting to sever them.

They were dry and flavorless. Of course they would be to him.

Once freed, he examined the paperclip in his hand. He started to apply pressure to one end of it; watching it slowly respond and uncoil from its' bent shape.

And then-

_Eric._

Godric quickly undid any change he'd made to the little object before plunging it back into the gum. He got to his feet, wondering if anyone would ever pick it up after him. The pendulum swinging of his legs recommenced.

He upped his pace; acted like there was a destination in front of him he actually wanted to reach. The act was more difficult to put on than it was the last time he'd done it. Faking was only achieved convincingly so long as the reality still lingered somewhere for you to look back on. And his memory of purpose was getting ever more distant and unimaginable.

How he would love to give up the entire institution of acting- to deteriorate to pieces and scatter on the ground. To be weak, and uncertain, and always assumed to be wrong. Or, infinitely more appealing, to be completely overlooked altogether, and responsible for nothing and nobody.

Not even himself.

But that was nonsensical.

However, just because he could never give it up did not mean his acting was flawless. He'd been subject to more sidelong glances and furrowed brows at the nest than he was even aware of. Not that any of that bothered him.

But he could not have his child look at him that way.

He didn't know why it mattered when nothing else did. Still, Godric straightened and tried to fill a fraction of the mold that was expected of him.

Footsteps began to mirror the beat of his.

He knew a lot about those footsteps. They were the faithful undercurrent of his life for a very long time.

Awareness passed through. A mutual acknowledgement between them that had nothing to do with spoken greetings or what the eyes could see.

Godric kept traveling wordlessly.

"Do you mind if I walk with you?" Eric finally voiced.

He sounded strangely insecure in the question. Perhaps even afraid of what the answer would be. Well, as close to afraid as Eric ever got, anyway. He had so much courage. He always did.

"I don't mind."

The Viking sped up slightly, and Godric moved over to accommodate him. The sidewalk wasn't designed for people roaming about in pairs. The scanty width of the path made the space separating them thinner than he'd estimated, causing the hair on Eric's forearm to rub against him every so often.

Godric watched a traffic light alternate color in the distance as the minutes passed.

_Red… _

_Yellow…_

_Green…_

"You went to the Fellowship," Eric said after awhile.

He wasn't particularly thrilled about it.

Godric nodded, "He said they didn't send him."

"And you believe him?"

"He was-" he broke off, searching for the right word in the current language, day, and age, "…glamoured at the time."

They came to a turn in the sidewalk. The pavement began to veer off in a direction separate from the one that would take them to Godric's home. As the ancient boy stepped down from the curb on to the asphalt, he remembered when roads were crafted with bricks, and dirt, and times in places that hadn't ever known roads at all.

Eric joined him on the street. There was room to put between them now, but his child either didn't notice or didn't care. If anything, he seemed to be standing closer. Their arms pressed in on each other almost constantly.

"I never thought you would live in a nest with twenty other vampires," the Viking said.

_Red…_

_Yellow…_

_Green…_

He could feel Eric looking at his face.

"They treat me well."

His arm pushed against Godric's with more weight, "They'd better."

Something in Eric's tone of voice told Godric he wanted to touch him more at that moment. To maybe nudge his shoulder or ruffle his hair. But Godric had made a very deliberate choice not to look at him all throughout their walk, and so Eric was not permitted to do any of those things.

And Godric was pathetically grateful for that.

It had been years since he'd been able to be with anyone. Monitoring the passage of time was one of the most miserable pastimes a vampire his age could possibly partake in, so he had no idea how many, but he knew it was years.

A dull ache shot through him when Eric came to him the night before, pleading for something Godric no longer had to give. And Godric had tried, had even _wanted_, to kiss him back- to enjoy the feel of his hands- to touch Eric just once more before he became untouchable.

But he lacked both the will to make him stop, and the strength to keep him going. So Godric couldn't even have that.

The ancient boy thought of the utter confusion on his child's face when he'd realized how far to nowhere he was getting, and stepped away from him. There was no reason to walk so near to each other with the entire road to themselves.

He felt Eric's stare, but offered no explanation. He focused on the traffic light again.

_Red…_

_Yellow…_

_Green…_

Eric looked away, "Do you…have a car?"

Godric practically snorted.

"No, Eric, I do not have a car. Nor do I want one."

His tone was sharp enough to cause Eric to lower his head. Godric saw him gazing at the ground out of the corner of his eye. He was too irritable at that precise second to feel bad about it. But it wasn't long before the flare of aggravation passed, and he sighed.

He quizzed himself for something to say. It was extraordinarily hard to think of anything he had a desire to know. He already said everything when he was saying goodbye.

He settled on, "When are you leaving?"

It was the only thing that mattered. The only thing left between them to discuss: Parting.

There was no response.

"Eric?"

"I don't know, Godric."

An erratic tearing sensation scraped sluggishly across Godric's chest. It didn't hurt badly; the pain was probably the equivalent of a scratch from a human fingernail. But it was a feeling of some kind, and that made it notable to the ancient boy.

He couldn't figure out where it came from. He'd felt it in his own body, but it didn't seem to be stemming from there. It was more like the second image in a mirror, or the aftereffects of a tidal wave. A pain which belonged to him, but was somehow not completely his. A shared pain…

Godric halted, slowly rotating his head toward Eric.

"Child," he said, and the Viking stopped too, "Have I hurt you?"

Their eyes met.

Godric attempted to evaluate the conditions of the sea hidden beneath the identical sheets of ice encasing Eric's irises. The ice had thickened a great deal since they were last together, and he feared the night would soon come when he would look at his child and see his own deadened bergs reflected back at him.

But that hadn't happened yet, and, though Eric was profusely skilled in concealing weakness, Godric was even more practiced at finding it. He could see that Eric was crushed; that he had decimated him in some display of carelessness he couldn't put a name to or fully understand.

Still, Eric watched his assessment without once backing down from it. He stood before him with all the majesty of a great mountain- awe inspiring and undeniably daunting. And then he who was so grotesquely wounded, looked at the ancient boy wielding the bloody sword, and said:

"No, Godric."

And Godric loved him so absolutely that he almost wanted to live.

He smiled, one of his hands reaching out to rest on the side of Eric's neck. Eric bent in anticipation of the customary gesture. His skin was warm to Godric's fingers, and he traced the line of his jaw attentively with the edge of his thumb.

Godric watched as Eric's eyes squeezed shut. His head drooped, making Godric's hand slide partially on to his face. His cheek pressed into his palm so roughly, Godric found himself slightly frightened by the amount of influence he held over him. He didn't have a clue as to what he'd done in the last thousand years to earn such raw devotion.

He traced his jaw again, "What do you want?"

"To talk to you," Eric breathed without opening his eyes.

Gently, Godric withdrew his hand. Eric's arm rose an inch into the air, the lengthy digits on his own extremity twitching in protest. If he were anyone else, Godric was sure the Viking would have grabbed his wrist to prohibit the loss of contact.

He waited for Eric to compose himself (blinking and squaring his shoulders) before he spoke.

"I'm listening."

Then they were interrupted by the roar of a black vehicle coming at them from down the road. There was lighting of some type installed underneath it so the street glowed green between its' tries. The driver was obviously speeding, and the flashy headlights burst into Godric's vision- temporarily blinding him.

_So bright…_

He winced as he and Eric maneuvered out of the way into a ditch. Whoever was behind the wheel also had a strong affection for music, and was blasting something spectacularly awful out of the car's sound system. Godric could feel the thudding of the bass quaking against his eardrums in piercing intervals. The vibrations lasted long after the tires squealed agonizingly out of sight.

Eric sneered in disgust, "Humans."

"I have known vampires that were worse drivers," Godric corrected, "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

Eric looked at him first, then around himself at their surroundings.

"Not on the side of the road."

Godric didn't see what difference the location of the conversation made, but he decided he could afford to be indulgent.

"Where, then?"

The Viking looked about again. The ancient boy struggled to follow the rapid flickering of his searching glances. At last, he seemed to ferret out someplace to his satisfaction. He grinned, and it was the expression of a rogue.

"Away from society," he took a few steps backward, "Come with me."

Godric watched Eric's retreat into the grass warily. He was certain he'd spent enough time outside of society, and had no desire to return there now. Honestly, he yearned for nothing more than to get back to his nest and surrender to oblivion. Mr. Newlin had taken a serious toll on whatever meager vapors he was running off of, and Eric had him working in the negatives. But it was his choice to be indulgent, so he may as well follow through.

He moved one foot after Eric, indicating that he was indeed going to go with him, and his child truly did seem youthful in his enthusiasm as he turned to lead the way…

The fire in the middle of nowhere was bizarre.

Godric had barely begun to follow Eric into the patch of trees he'd so joyously discovered when the Viking stopped. He caught up and went around his eclipsing backside to see what had caused the pause, and there in front of them laid a smoldering pit of embers.

It was circular; framed by an imperfect border of unshapely stones. The rocks were all a dusty brown that blended with the shade of the exposed earth- pieces of nature which were derived from the source, and not man's polished imitation. The ancient boy scanned the perimeter for a tent, or a thermos, or any telltale device marking the presence of eccentric campers.

There weren't any.

Eric had made similar observations, "It's abandoned."

"It hasn't been for long," Godric said, gaze lingering on the simmering pit.

"Luckily for us."

Godric watched on as Eric paced to the skinny trunk beside him and dismembered it of its' scrawny branches. He wrapped the bundle in the coils of his inescapable grip before snapping it into halves. He kept downsizing until he was carrying suitable firewood, then unloaded it on to the luminous bed of orange. A leftover stick served the purpose of stoking the dormant flames.

His labor complete, Eric pivoted back toward the ancient boy with a spark of pridefulness seasoning his features.

_Look, _it called out, _look what I've done for you._

Godric nodded his approval before making his advance toward the pit. He moved to the side opposite of where Eric was standing, and then lowered himself to sit cautiously on the soil. It was only after he was seated that the Viking responded in kind.

The disjointed soundtrack of fuel being converted to ash, and the chorus of insects singing their timeless hymns, wavered through intermittently spaced beats of silence to create an illustration of their previous eternity.

"He is an old companion, the fire," Godric said, because this felt like a time when his thoughts belonged as much to him as they did to Eric, "The one thing left from my beginning that continues to burn."

"Do you see him often?" Eric asked.

"I used to. But we've grown apart."

Eyes overflowing with questions sought him out through the fire. Godric stared back into the flames blankly. There were no answers he could give.

"I can't feel you anymore," Eric stated flatly.

Godric cocked his head, confused, "What do you mean?"

"I was standing right outside that church with Isabel, and I couldn't feel you inside," he exhaled harshly, frustrated and angry, "When she told me you were missing, I thought there had to be a mistake. If you were taken, you would have _called _me. But then I tried to find you through the bond, and I…"

He got to his feet, walking halfway around the fire in a visible surge of agitation. Then he struck the trunk of a lone tree when the motion did not help. He pounded against it once with the side of his fist before whirling around to face the ancient boy again.

"There was nothing there, Godric," he said, and he looked so ashamed- like he'd committed an unpardonable sin, "I can't even tell you when it happened. If you hadn't gone missing, I probably still wouldn't know."

That admission seemed to be the worst for him, and he began to pace around the fire again. On the around trip, he punched the tree a second time; doing serious damage to the bark. Godric waited patiently for him to get a handle on himself.

"Eric, it's alright," he soothed once the Viking had gone motionless.

"It's not."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"It's not your fault."

"It _is_."

Godric was too worn and tired to keep arguing. He gazed at the fire's dance- possibly more grateful than any other person on the planet that its' swaying movements were never exactly the same twice. Unpredictability, even a small instance such as that, was a gift to be treasured.

Eric's words were tight, controlled, "Can you still feel me?"

A gust of wind sped up the tempo of the dance. The wood crackled as the heat sashayed overtop of it.

"You will always be a part of me," Godric said, choosing his reply carefully, "I made you."

"I didn't realize that doesn't work both ways."

He clearly wanted a further explanation, but Godric couldn't explain this to Eric in a way he would accept. How could he even begin to tell his child that the loss of connection he was sensing had nothing to do with their bond? That he could not find him because Godric did not want to be found? That he was not picking up on any feelings from Godric's end because there truly was nothing there to feel?

Impossible.

The fire took up the brunt of the conversation as Eric waited for Godric to speak and Godric waited for Eric to tire of waiting. They sat together in a gauzy sort of suspension; the old challenge of mentor and apprentice like airy static jumping out of one and into the other.

At last, Godric saw a change in Eric. His face relaxed from its' state of expectance, and the gateway of his mouth parted in preparation to form a word-

But before the word could escape, a wild babbling of alien voices rose out over the landscape.

Godric's head snapped to the left. The racket of feet trampling hectically over the uneven floor of the woods made it perfectly clear: Something was coming. Something was close.

The ancient boy was standing in an instant, Eric already tensed in alert. They blurred in synchronization to the edge of the trees. They were positioned side by side- moving far enough forward that they would not be hindered by the obstruction of the fire should they need to reach each other. They were unified; a front that continued to thrive even in the face of Godric's all-encompassing fatigue.

_Nothing will touch you. If it dares to try, it will answer to me. I will fight tooth and nail with you, for you, beside you. Just as you will fight for me. And I know beyond a doubt, I have this of you. Until true death. Even after._

The figures of three women stumbled into Godric's line of sight. Their clothes were torn and dirty, and one of them was entirely nude from the waist up. Their hair was in tangles; the locks congealed together by dried mud. They were blundering about hopelessly, incapacitated by hysterical fits of laughter (and, Godric suspected, superfluous amounts of alcohol).

The topless one was carrying a knife in her left hand. The point was sharp, and dripping with fresh blood, but that seemed to be the most troubling thing they had to offer. That is, until they looked at him.

Their eyes were black.

Their eyes were completely black.

Godric exchanged peripheral glances with Eric. He noticed the eyes too.

"Hey!" the woman slightly ahead of the other two shouted, "You guys stole our fire!"

"Sorry," Eric said, smiling.

The topless one smiled back, "That's okay..."

She put the blade of the knife to her lips. Her tongue darted out to touch the base of it, then drug suggestively up to the tip- licking the blood off. She wiped a droplet of residue off of the corner of her mouth and suckled the ruby substance from the pad of her finger.

"You're yummy."

"Let's eat 'em!" the third squealed.

They let loose a chorus of high pitched shrieks in agreement. And then they threw themselves into the arms of Death.

Godric wished he hadn't gone with Eric.

The first woman leapt at the Viking, her topless friend and the knife following a second later. The last member of the group, the one who'd had the bright idea of dabbling in the practice of cannibalism, took hold of Godric's shirt in fistfuls and tried to use the fabric as leverage to reel him into her.

The ancient boy wrapped a hand around her neck. He did not hold tight enough to crush her windpipe, or even interfere with her breathing, but she was not taking a bite out of him anytime soon. In response, she placed her palm almost lovingly on top of the hand around her throat.

She giggled, "I like you."

Godric regarded her for a brief, uncomprehending moment. Then he turned his attention to Eric.

The girl with no shirt didn't have the knife anymore, and, from where he was standing, it didn't appear as if the other one had it either. Eric was on the ground with his fangs sunken deep into the chest of the topless woman, who was moaning in loud streams of French for him to kill her faster.

He'd rendered what would be his second victim immobile by pinning her down with his free hand. She was thrashing back and forth in anger. But, even in the throws of savage rage, she was hardly able to move at all. His fingers clutched her arm; encircling it. She made a howling sound that was incredibly inhuman, and turned her head to the side to fill her mouth with grass and dirt.

That was when Eric pulled away from the woman's flesh. He gazed over at Godric with hot blood pouring out of his mouth and seeping down his chin. Their eyes met. And then his child grinned- his fangs glazed in red and painfully obvious.

_Look, _they called out, _look what I've become for you._

"Let go of me!"

Godric glanced back at the woman in his hands. She'd decided she was no longer pleased with her current position, and was yanking futilely at his grasp. It was nearly impossible to judge given the pigment of her eyes, but she seemed to be fixated on Eric's gory antics as well.

"Let go," she hollered, "I wanna get bit too!"

She looked back at him, and it felt like staring into a vacuum. A place totally void of anything except unending emptiness. It was as if everything in the compact space had been eroded away; as if he was peering into eyes that had dilated beyond capacity in their quest to seek out the light.

All he could think was, after 2,000 years in the dark, these were what _his _eyes should look like. And peering into the vacuum was suddenly not so different from peering into a mirror.

"I'm gonna beat you when I get free," the reflection threatened, "I'm gonna beat you till you're deader 'n a corpse. And I'll suck your brains outta your nostrils with a straw, and hang your head from the ceilin' on my chandelier so you can watch while I ride whatever's left of you."

Godric's hand slid limply from the woman's throat- releasing her entirely. It fell uselessly to his side without his conscious permission, as if abruptly struck with paralysis. His whole body seemed to cave in around him like a giant mob of employees who were fed up with him sleeping on the job. There was not a single muscle responding to his orders.

The woman's leg flailed through the air and collided with his.

After two hits, his frigid form was rendered unstable enough to topple to the ground.

He landed on his side, his shoulder taking the majority of the impact. Then she was kicking his back. Out of the three women, she was the only one who wasn't barefoot. Her shoe slammed into him repeatedly. He mentally counted each strike.

_Once…Twice…A third time… A fourth… A fifth…_

And then the force was enough to roll him on to his stomach.

Her maniacal laughter exploded in his ears. She was clearly enjoying herself. Godric discovered he was strangely happy for her.

A second passed, and her footsteps pranced away.

The ancient boy wondered how long it would be until he could move; wondered whether or not he would ever be able to move again.

Then she returned.

And stabbed the knife straight through his neck.

Godric heard his own scream.

It was a reflux reaction. He wasn't really aware of the pain. What bit he did register reminded him of hunger pangs, and he was quite used to those. But the spray of blood was impressive, leaving him wet and sticky. The material of his shirt clung to the flesh of his upper arm in a way which he found most irritating.

There was a roar of earth shattering fury that he identified immediately as Eric's. Suddenly, the woman was gone; the blade of the knife pulled cleanly from the back of his neck. He heard the beginnings of a feminine cry, but it cut off in a gurgle. There was nothing after that.

Godric was sure she was dead.

He used the next few moments to take stock of his injuries. She'd hit him twice in the right leg, five times in the back, and stabbed him once in the neck. Eight times total… Godric thought of what he'd told Mr. Newlin earlier, and allowed himself to be amused.

Large hands, strong but exceedingly gentle, wrapped around and flipped him on to his back. The process didn't hurt very much. He must already be recuperating. Eric leaned overtop of him, his eyes intent on the mess of blood courtesy of the neck wound. The Viking looked to be quite a disaster too after feeding, but none of the splatters decorating him originated from his own veins.

"I'll heal," Godric reminded him hoarsely, "Get off of me."

"I am not-"

"Get off."

Eric pushed himself upright. The ancient boy found the ability to sit up once the space in front of him was cleared, and took advantage of it. His child tried to assist him, but he brushed his arms away. He could take care of himself.

Godric rested his elbows on his knees. His hunched posture triggered a long forgotten coughing reflex, and he gagged and sputtered for a very brief while. It didn't concern him. He knew his age would have him repaired in a matter of minutes.

"Why did you let her attack you?"

He shrugged an unaffected shoulder, "Why not?"

"She stabbed you."

Eric was staring at his face again. Godric could not return his attention. He did not want to know what expression he would meet if he did.

He changed the subject, "They were possessed."

There was a beat of quiet. He was almost able to hear the gears in Eric's head screeching unwillingly on to a different track. Eric was not the least bit satisfied with Godric's put on nonchalance. However, the off-topic statement he'd dropped between them did capture his interest.

He finally surrendered, "By what?"

"An energy. An evil energy."

Godric stood. He was fine now, and he hefted Eric up with him to prove it. He walked to the cold, mangled remains of the women; taking hold of the one who'd beaten him. She was lighter in his grasp than a particle of dust.

"Now, put out the fire, and let's go," he instructed.

"Yes, Godric."

Once the pit had been extinguished, they wandered off to dispose of the bodies. A sense of déjà vu remained with Godric throughout the entire process.


	8. The Telepathic Waitress

Sookie didn't know much.

It was kind of ironic, since she constantly had to deal with everyone else's knowledge barging in on her all the time. You would think with all the smarts sneezed into her head, she would be one of the most informed people alive.

And, in some small ways, she guessed she was.

But there were times when even her mind reading came in handy just a smidgen too late. Like what happened with Hugo, and that crazy, vampire-hating church. And, speaking of vampires, well, they were a whole separate ballgame altogether. Sookie couldn't hear them at all.

Which brings us back to the truck load of everything she didn't know.

The telepathic waitress didn't have a clue what the Fellowship of the Sun supporter was going on about on the TV. It started as a debate over whether vampires should be eligible to be hired as school teachers (they would make some of the best history instructors in the nation, since a lot of them had firsthand experience to pull from), and quickly escalated into an all out attack on the questionable conditions of vampire morality.

"…_that they're all serial killers. You can't expect me to send my children off to be taught by a serial killer. If we let them into the school system, we'll be raising a generation of rapists and murderers! Vampires should be locked away and executed for their crimes against humanity. If they want equality, then why are they being held to different standards than the rest of society? They aren't-"_

Sookie picked up the remote wedged between the cushions of the couch, and pressed the power button. The quiet was a whole lot nicer to listen to.

She reached around for Bill's cool hand on her shoulder, tugging it down and tightening the cradle of his arm over her back. That was nice too- the comfort, the luxury, of being able to relax and enjoy the silence with someone else beside her. Before Bill, it hadn't been possible.

The ease warmed her muscles until she was loose all over. She dropped Bill's hand into her lap.

"Are you tired?" he asked softly.

"Not really."

Sookie leaned into his side, stretching. She lifted her feet off the floor, and spread her legs out on the furniture. Who cared if her actions didn't exactly match up with what she said?

Bill cared.

"It's after four in the mornin'."

"So we still have another hour till dawn."

Sookie tilted her face up, fluttering her eyelashes a little in suggestion. Bill liked that, and tangled his fingers in the ends of her hair to pull it forward. He kissed her- a fast, forceful darting forward against the pucker of her mouth, and then away.

That was all it took for the serene warmth to flare into fire. She'd been a virgin not so long ago, and sex was very new and exciting. As far as Sookie could tell, there would never be enough of it. She twisted to anchor herself to his neck in a surge of energy; her legs bending beneath her as she brought herself up on to her knees.

She pressed their lips together a second time, equally as hard and extremely eager.

"Let's not waste it," she urged.

Bill stared at her, "Sookie…"

The telepathic waitress was disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. She kissed him again before pushing him back into the cushions of the couch. Her thighs spread to frame his. Sookie rubbed against him once, and a funny clenching sensation messed her breath up.

"You don't want to?"

He slid his hands over her ribcage, his thumbs just below the swell of her chest and his pinkies just above her waist. At least he was holding her now, but it was still without any of the reckless abandon she was hoping for.

"Of course I do, sweetheart," he said, "But I am afraid this may not be the best time."

Sookie tried to think of a reason why that might be true. Eric wasn't there to ruin the moment, or Jason. Jessica wasn't even in the room adjoining theirs anymore, for crying out loud.

She sat back, "What's wrong with it?"

"I need to be prepared to protect you. I cannot be distracted from lookin' out for you. Your safety is too important to compromise."

"Distracted?" Sookie didn't like that word, "Is that all this is to you, Bill Compton? A distraction?"

"No!"

She climbed off of him. Forget all of that stuff about comfort and company in the quiet. It didn't matter one bit when she was hurt and angry. Like a coupon that was good till the 26th on the 27th, or vacuuming right before her shape shifter boss came over to visit.

"I'm goin' to bed," she announced.

Bill caught her wrist.

"Sookie," he pleaded, "Believe me when I say that makin' love to you is the greatest honor I have ever partaken in. There is nothin' that pleasures me more than bein' with you in the throes of passion. You have liberated me from the prison that is my blackened soul, and, if I have somehow given you cause to think otherwise, I am immeasurably sorry."

Sookie looked down at Bill, her heart shooting up into her throat. How could he make her feel so awful one minute, and then turn around and say something like that? Her eyes stung, and the images in front of her swirled through a haze of inexplicable tears.

"Well done, Bill," a stale tone congratulated from across the room, "I've heard some talented persuasive speakers, but that was quite… touching. Do you write poetry?"

Bill shot up so fast Sookie thought maybe she passed out for a second. He pulled her wrist back and stepped forward to shield her from the threat towering in the open doorway. She moved to the side, and glared at the nasty sight awaiting her.

Eric met her eyes with an arrogant twitch of his brow. He looked gross- even grosser than he usually did. He was covered in blood. Dried, crusted smears dashed across his pale shoulders, and three long trails had drizzled down his lower arm to look like scratches; making Sookie's spine ache in reminder of her recent (but not her _most_ recent) near-death experience.

A lopsided stain went around his mouth, his chin, and changed the color of his throat. There was a dribble on his forehead, where a few stray pieces of hair had fallen out of place and were caked in gore. Sookie knew there must be more, but the rest of him was covered in black clothes that didn't betray anything.

Eric sauntered further into their space, grabbing the door handle to shut it behind him.

"This is private suite," Bill spat, "I could report you to hotel security for breakin' an entry."

"You _could_, presuming I wasn't paying for it."

The telepathic waitress looked at the floor as he took his next steps. Eric's shoes were dirty. It wasn't blood-dirt, either. It was plain old dirt-dirt, like from the ground. As he got closer, the scent of burning ash wafted into her nose.

"Why do you have blood all over you?" she asked.

He peered down from the vantage point of his height, "I stopped for takeout."

Sookie shrank backward in revulsion. Eric leered visibly at her reaction.

Bill's arms came around her, reeling her into his embrace. She let him guide her into the protection of his side. His hands crawled up her back, and they felt good there. She grabbed on to his shirt to press her cheek into the material- turning away from Eric completely.

"You're scarin' her," Bill accused.

"She's not scared," Eric scoffed, "She's naïve. She wouldn't be by now, if you didn't insist on coddling her. For Jessica's sake, I hope you don't extend the same caretaking methods to your progeny."

"I sent Jessica back to Bon Temps."

There was a pause. Sookie unburied her face long enough to sneak a peek at Eric. All of his sarcastic humor had been wiped clean.

The question was disbelieving, "Alone?"

"No," Bill said, obviously insulted, "With her human companion."

"A snack for the road. How thoughtful of you, Bill. You shouldn't have."

The derisive way he spoke made Sookie's temper spike. Like he could just walk in here and talk down to the man she loved like he was an idiot; criticizing him for keeping her safe. And then to have the nerve to treat someone's life as if it wasn't worth any more than a fast food burger? Twice? Right in front of her?

_Who does he think he is?_

Sookie broke out of Bill's embrace furiously. She stormed up to Eric in that disgusting, blood-drenched outfit that did not look on him at all, and planted herself dead center to his egotistical face. She shot daggers up at him through heated eyes.

Bill was worried, "Sookie!"

She ignored him, enunciating her words with clear rage.

"Hoyt. Is not. A snack."

Eric looked directly into the sharp ends of her daggers with no trouble at all. It wasn't even like he was fending them off. He was just absorbing them. They projected out of her on a homicide mission, and he welcomed the potential to kill like a second skin; an armor he could slip into the same way Sookie would an old, comfy sweater.

It made her cold.

The curve of his lips was too sinister to be a smile as he gazed over her head- at Bill, she realized.

"I told you she wasn't scared."

His focus flicked to her, and it was penetrating in the most confusing way. It made her feel naked. And that wasn't only because his eyes were roaming south of her face- though that was probably part of it. It was because, and she was just now figuring this out, Eric saw _everything _naked.

When he looked at Bill, Sookie could see how little he thought of him; how superior he thought he was to him in about every single way. And when he looked at that crazy Reverend in that crazier church, Sookie could see flat out how much he hated him. And when he looked at Godric...

Sookie didn't think she'd ever seen that much love in her whole life.

It went against everything she thought she knew about Eric Northman- the thought that something like him could care for someone else so much. It would be a lot easier to pretend she never saw him totally humbled and stripped bare of all the asshole stuff she couldn't stand about him; to pretend she never watched him drop to his knees out of absolute loyalty for a boy so much smaller than he was.

Except that it wasn't easy at all.

"He really doesn't give you enough credit," Eric told her of Bill, then addressed what she'd said about Hoyt, "The human might not be a snack yet, but he will be. A vampire as young as Jessica is always hungry. Even with lessons on how to feed properly, the chances of her not draining him are slim at best."

While she tried to wrap her head around the idea of Jessica murdering Hoyt, he turned his attention to Bill again.

"You did teach her how to feed without killing them…"

"Well… No, I- I didn't."

Sookie was shocked. She hadn't known drinking human blood without downing the entire human was a skill which new vampires had to master. But now that she did, it seemed pretty important.

"Bill," she chastised.

"I'm teachin' her to mainstream," he defended, "I saw no need."

"If Hoyt ends up dead, I'll never forgive you."

It looked like Eric had a migraine, "Our problems could get much worse than the death of one man. I take it you also didn't find it necessary to teach her the art of discretion, or moderation."

The mortification on Bill's face spoke volumes.

"Have you taught her anything since we returned her to you?"

"Glamouring."

"A crucial life skill," Eric's sarcasm was biting, "When she goes on a public killing spree, I'm sure the AVL will be very understanding."

Sookie couldn't picture it. She couldn't imagine Jessica slaughtering Hoyt, let alone everyone in Bon Temps. Her friends and Jason a bunch of drained bodies that were dumped carelessly all over the streets… It made the undersides of her arms prickle.

"Could she do that? Go on a killin' spree?"

Bill was hesitant to answer her, "…In theory, yes."

"Oh my God! My brother just flew back there yesterday! We have to go!"

"We don't have to go anywhere," Eric disagreed, looking to the other vampire, "Jessica is your responsibility. You sent her away, and you're going to bring her back… _before_ she reaps havoc on the town. I am your Sheriff, Bill, and I suggest you act quickly, because any damage she manages to create will fall on you."

Sookie shook her head adamantly, "Nu huh. I am not sittin' this one out."

"Actually, you are," Eric said, "The Light of Day extremists are still at large, and your telepathy might prove useful."

Bill cared for that reasoning as much as Sookie did, "The Light of Day extremists are not our concern. They wouldn't be an issue to begin with if they hadn't been led to believe they possess the resources to defeat us."

"What are you saying?"

"Well, if Godric hadn't allowed himself to be taken-"

Sookie had another one of those moments where it felt like she passed out and missed a few seconds. One minute Eric was standing stark still next to her, listening to Bill with a face carved out of stone. Then he was on the other side of the room, twisting Bill's arm behind his back.

She ran over to them, "Eric! Let him go!"

He tugged his arm harshly, and Bill made an agonized sound that made Sookie see red. She pounced on Eric from behind, pummeling him with the sides of her fists. Jason would be proud to call her his sister.

"I have no respect for you," Eric told Bill, as if he wasn't aware of Sookie's onslaught in the slightest, "You've been negligent in your role as a Maker, and, since we arrived in Dallas, you have been nothing but a nuisance. I would enjoy ending you…"

"No!" Sookie cried, throwing everything she had into her punches and adding her legs to the effort.

Eric exhaled in hushed laughter. He untwisted Bill's arm, bringing him around so they stood facing each other. When he reorganized himself, the telepathic waitress lost her hold on him and tumbled off.

"…so I wouldn't speak Godric's name again," he finished, eyes and fangs bearing down on Bill.

Then Eric released Bill from his grasp, and pivoted around to stare at Sookie on the floor. He actually had the audacity to offer her his hand. She knocked it away fiercely, earning a twitch of his lips.

He strolled to the door.

"Pack light, Bill," he called over his shoulder.

And then Eric was finally gone.

Sookie scrambled to Bill. She leapt into him, hugging with all her might.

"Are you okay?"

"I am fine."

She kissed him.

He kissed her.

She kissed him again…

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Sookie was awakened by a persistent beeping noise sounding off in her left ear. She moaned, and rolled over groggily- her hand reaching out blindly to put a stop to whatever it was so she could go back to sleep.

Her fingers curled around the shape of her cell phone, lifting it from where it sat on the hotel nightstand. She pressed a random button. The screen lit up in bright blue and black letters that she had to squint to make out.

She had one, new voicemail.

A/N: No matter what kind of outline I start with, the chapters of this story never fail to surprise me. This one especially turned into something totally different than what I had in mind, but somehow it still managed to accomplish everything it was supposed to. I tried to simplify the narration a little for Sookie, which was way harder than I thought it'd be.

Thanks to all who read and review! And special thanks to cHoCoLaTe-cHiHuAhUa for your reassurance when I was second-guessing myself. You helped me sleep better at night, and I am very grateful!


	9. The Viking III

Eric should have been enjoying this.

Bill was saying his goodbyes to Sookie, not even trying to pretend that the Viking's silent presence didn't inconvenience him. Every lovesick caress was accented by a dirty look in Eric's direction. He made no secret of his disagreement with his Sheriff. He was angry, and he wanted his superior to know it.

This was such a grave tactical error it would have appealed to Eric's sense of humor if he was at all himself. Bill was a transparent casing to his own illogical passions- a young vampire in so many ways.

"You're gonna be drivin' all night," Sookie said in a gentle, sympathetic voice Eric never heard before, "What'll you do if the sun beats you back?"

Bill was holding her face in his hands.

"I will be forced to pull over, and take refuge in the ground."

"That's so…gross. You don't worry about worms, or bugs crawlin' on you?"

"They couldn't care less about us," Eric informed her, seizing an opportunity to be intrusive, "We're too dead."

He was immediately assaulted by the same narrowed, resentful eyes that seemed to be reserved for him at Godric's nest.

"No one is talkin' to you," his constituent said, just incase the menace in his face didn't relay the message well enough.

Eric glanced at the clock mounted on the opposite wall of the hotel suite, his weight shifting forward, and back, and forward again.

The display of impatience was against his will, and he put a stop to it the instant he noticed. He had little tolerance for anxiety. It didn't sit well on him for even brief periods of time, let alone multiple nights. Trying to rid himself of it by hunting down his Maker, and confessing the shameful truth of what he'd let become of their bond, had only made it worse.

Godric's scream was ringing in his ears tonight before life had the opportunity to rouse him.

A human woman, _a human woman_, put a knife through his Maker. She'd knocked him in to the dirt –had beaten him with her _human _thrashes and her _human _blows- and he had taken it.

Like a spineless worm, Godric, _Godric_, rolled over for her. The ancient boy whom Eric had fought more times than any foe he'd battled in over a thousand years, and whom he could never defeat regardless of how fierce or unexpected the effort, laid down before a powerless, _human_ girl.

It was more than enough to send Eric over the edge. Especially as the night wore on, and Godric repeatedly dodged his attempts to make sense of the surrender. His Maker all but flat out ignored his probing questions; sidestepping his purposely bald statements while avoiding eye contact like the plague.

Godric treated him as if he was the one who had folded to the punches of a lesser being. As if _Eric _had disappointed _him_.

And, Eric couldn't help but ask himself, had he? Were Godric's actions a test? Was his Maker using the human woman as a tool to assess his child's loyalty? Did the Viking fail the moment the blade of her weapon tore through his creator's skin?

"I hate leavin' you here," Bill crooned to Sookie, replanting himself firmly into his moment.

She gazed at him, "I hate stayin' without you. But you gotta take care of Jessica. I won't have her murderin' what's left of my family."

"I will return to you as soon as I possibly can."

"I'll be waitin'."

"I love you."

"I know you do."

After Godric's stern rejection of Eric's offering to share his room, he had returned to the Camilla in great need of a distraction. He hoped Bill and Sookie might be able to provide him with something trivial to get his mind off all of the disturbing shit his Maker ceremoniously dumped on him in the Texas woods.

But Bill and Sookie had their own mess to add to the pile instead… Now the darling couple was about to kiss.

Eric did not want to see this, "Chop-chop, Bill."

They ignored him, just like he knew they would. Bill pulled Sookie's face on his and their mouths smashed together. The impact was blunt, like vehicles ramming into each other on a highway. An uncoordinated accident followed immediately by a rough fusion that made Sookie try to mold herself into her boyfriend, even as Bill's grip on her face kept her a prudish distance away.

Godric's gift of unrelenting anxiety had Eric itching to get out of the hotel and on to more important things as it was. But watching the spectacle before him felt like tossing a handful of needles into the burden. Pin pricks of another cursed emotion poked into him at the sight.

Eric didn't care what it was. He detested caring, and he had too much to care about already.

"Did you want to reach Bon Temps while the residents were still living?" he asked, "…or were you just planning on organizing pine boxes? Perhaps the Magister will force you to create a new vampire for every human casualty of Jessica's."

The harsh words jumped between the lovebirds beautifully. Sookie was terrified by the possibility of her community taking up house in the town cemetery. Bill was equally horrified by the idea of winding up on the silver end of the Magister's staff for the second time in a matter of weeks. Even he had to know the repercussions would be deadly.

Nevertheless, Eric was not proud of them. He could feel the acid in his chest eating through his composure; he could hear it leaking into his voice. He was ridiculously tense- coiled to spring at the slightest provocation. If Bill were to overstep his bounds again, would he have the discipline not to kill him?

He needed to see Godric.

Bill finally stepped away from Sookie.

"You've made your point," he glowered at the Viking, "I request to speak to you outside."

"Bill…" Sookie complained, more than likely envisioning a similar scenario to the one she'd witnessed the night before.

The circumstances were worrisome. For, without her indomitable interference, who would referee?

The boyfriend wasn't having it, "Sookie."

Bill walked over toward the door. Eric gave a nod of agreement, and then proceeded into the hall. He traveled a few short steps into the corridor, standing in wait as Bill shut Sookie out of their conversation. The _click _of the seal annoyed Eric immensely.

Bill turned around, craning his neck up a bit to speak. He wasn't as short as the ancient boy, but the height difference was notable. It usually was where Eric was concerned; he looked down on the world.

"If anything happens to her, I swear..." he began.

"Please," Eric scoffed, "We both know she's safer with me than she ever was with you."

"I find that hard to believe since you were so willin' to put her in harm's way. My Maker, the vampire you so selfishly summoned here to detain me, would've ripped Sookie apart if the opportunity presented itself. She still could."

"Actually, Ms. Krasiki appears to have left Dallas."

"I suppose you should know. You were coverin' all of her expenses."

Eric could tell how disgusted Bill was by his decision to invite Lorena to Texas. He saw it as a low blow, a hit below the belt to steal Sookie away from him. But Eric's motivation for inviting Lorena- his primary motivation, anyway- had nothing to do with Sookie. It was to ensure that Godric was rescued, and Bill and his relationship would not interfere with any possibility of that happening.

It was funny, really, how quick Bill was to assume that everyone was as intensely enamored by the telepathic waitress as he was.

"Just as you should know I'm no longer covering all of yours. The gas you burn on this trip is coming out of your own wallet. Do we understand each other?"

Bill leveled Eric with a stare he probably meant to be threatening. Eric looked back, his face totally lax.

"We do," Bill finally agreed.

"Excellent."

Bill padded down the hall without anything further. He stopped when he reached the elevator, pressing the down arrow to take him to the lobby. As he watched him wait, Eric realized he was heading to Bon Temps empty handed. Bill hadn't bothered to re-pack a suitcase, or even stock a grocery bag for his departure.

He wasn't planning on this taking very long.

The elevator arrived, Bill stepped inside, and Eric reentered Sookie's room.

He found her standing somewhere between the doorway and the couch, her eyes breaking away easily from the television show she must have been half-watching in her distress. She looked at him with a bated suspension in her dark eyes that he knew too well.

The Viking gave his most empathetic expression.

"What happened to Bill?" Sookie blurted, staring straight through him.

"Nothing," he said, sharper than he'd intended, "He left…And now we're leaving."

"Leavin'? No, I'm not goin' anywhere with you."

Of course she would have to be difficult. Eric didn't have the time or patience to deal with her pitiful mortal attempts at resistance. He was late as it was. Without warning, he advanced on her, using her arms to steer her in front of him and then pushing her along out of the room with the continual motion of his own body.

Sookie yelped at him like an angry puppy every step of the way out of the Camilla. She called for help on the ground floor, but, after one glance at Eric, any onlookers she'd managed to attract quickly lost interest.

"Okay, okay!" she yelled at last as they progressed outdoors, "Get your giant hands off me! I can walk on my own!"

Eric complied, swinging her easily over to the side and releasing her. She fumed in huffy silence a step behind him as they moved down the sidewalk. His forearm was cold.

Sookie's fury soon morphed into curiosity, "Where're we goin'?"

"To see the Vampire King of Texas."

That threw her. Her steps faltered on the cement, and she tilted her head in puzzlement. Her face was highly skeptical.

"There's a…Vampire King of Texas?" she asked…

The buffoon with the outrageous earring was the only semi-living thing in sight.

He was stationed just outside the front entrance of Godric's nest, scanning the grounds lazily at his own convenience. A phone was pressed against his ear. He was mumbling into it enthusiastically as Eric approached with Sookie. Clad in fashionably abused jeans and gel-hardened hair, any passerby would easily mistake him for a loitering college student.

If it was a front, Eric was impressed.

Otherwise, it was appalling.

The Viking kept his eyes trained on the doorman, evaluating. They were only a few yards away. If he was listening, really listening, he should have heard them. He didn't even twitch.

Sookie squinted, "Is that…?"

"Security," Eric explained, the word more than slightly mocking, "We'll see how reliable he is."

"We're not supposed to be here, are we?"

"I'm not."

Eric placed a hand on Sookie's back as they neared the building. He was becoming increasingly agitated by the buffoon's apparent obliviousness. It was no wonder the Solider of the Sun had reached Godric so effortlessly.

The buffoon continued his conversation as if they didn't exist. Eric listened to his uninterrupted mumblings while Sookie passed through the door, noting with some disbelief that the voice pouring into the phone wasn't of the same rusty tenor he remembered.

It sounded nothing like it.

Eric scanned him with brutal scrutiny, hesitating just barely for a second look. There was no doubt it was the same imbecile who'd been causing trouble two nights before- the same irritated idiot who had been sitting across from his Maker in the chamber for conferences. But it was not the same voice.

Suddenly, the buffoon's eyes flashed up to his.

It was immediately clear that he'd been aware of their advance all along. There was no alarm in his expression. He kept on talking into the receiver in the alien voice that admittedly fit his appearance much better than the gruff one had. And then he smiled at the Viking as if they were sharing a private joke, and turned his back.

Eric was at a loss as to what the buffoon thought he was doing, but he knew he didn't like it. He would mention it to Godric the next time they were alone.

Once inside, Eric immediately began to search the entryway for obstacles. He prepared for ambush, sure that the pathetic waste of space by the door couldn't possibly be the only form of security the Dallas vampires employed to keep unwelcome visitors out of the nest.

He found himself walking into another petty argument instead.

"…Highness has a perfectly reasonable excuse."

"Excuses ain't never reasonable. Bunch of garbage made up by lazy bastards that can't deal with their own problems."

"He is a King."

"Then he oughta start actin' like it. Third time this year he's left us high and dry. Everybody and their neighbor knows we got these fanatics leavin' tanin' beds on our doorstep."

"That was a mistake."

"That wasn't a mistake. That was harassment."

"You are the most paranoid vampire I have ever-"

Isabel cut off as Eric and Sookie rounded the corner into the front room. Godric's lieutenants materialized in their path instantly, baring their fangs. The immediate defensive response might have been reassuring if it had happened before the ancient boy was within sight. As it was, there was nothing stopping Eric from barreling through them to get to their Sheriff. And that knowledge weighed heavily on him.

"It certainly took you long enough," he criticized, peering over Isabel's head as she retracted her fangs.

His Maker was seated on the near end of a couch behind them. It was turned sideways- leaving only the right half of Godric visible from where Eric was standing. He was draped in bland, loose-fitting clothes that blended almost perfectly with the furniture; his profile partially hidden by the hump of the armrest. His eyes were directed straight forward, staring at nothing, glazed over with a distance that made the blood in Eric's veins surge without the encouragement of a pulse.

This wasn't Godric: this hallow capsule; this inanimate wallflower.

However, most unsettling of all was that the ancient boy's nestmates didn't seem to find anything strange about this behavior. Eric knew Godric to be a deep thinker, but this was…something else. _This _couldn't be normal.

"How'd you get in here?" Stan rumbled from between clenched teeth, unwilling to back down.

"We walked," Sookie said harmlessly, "The man outside didn't say anything to us."

The cowboy sneered at her. He looked to Eric, refusing to acknowledge the human.

"He should have. King don't want an audience."

"I don't see any king here," Sookie fired back, indignant.

"Maybe you got bad eyesight."

"I have 20 20 vision, thank you very much. What are you? Legally blind?"

Stan growled, making an attempt to lunge at Sookie. Isabel restrained him, revealing that she was clearly the elder of the two. Eric had to restrain himself from lashing out at all of them. He'd have been better off interrogating a slab of concrete for answers.

"So His Majesty hasn't arrived," he surmised, "Why?"

He spoke louder than necessary. His eyes were diverted over Isabel's head again, burning holes in Godric's temple.

The ancient boy showed no sign of being aware of any of it.

"You shouldn't have known we were expecting him in the first place," Isabel informed him, but it was no news to Eric, "How did you learn this?"

The Viking's focus didn't waver from the immobile form on the couch. He realized his true reason for coming to the nest had nothing to do with political justifications, or even testing the Dallas vampires' sorely lacking security personnel.

"Godric mentioned it," Eric said, implicating his Maker, moving through Isabel and Stan, approaching the couch, "He told me not to get involved…but I came anyway."

He spoke slowly, deliberately. He let the dare of a challenge saturate his breath- his stance tall and confrontational as he situated himself before Godric. In the past, these actions would have surely signed his death warrant. He was hoping they still would.

Eric needed to see the old spark of condemnation in his Maker's eye; the one that could force him into surrender when an army of over 300,000 men could not. He needed to watch his mouth twist in understated outrage, and sense the burn of it searing through his skin. He needed to feel the iron will of a vampire more than twice his age pressing in on him, reminding him what he was supposed to be.

He would gladly submit to all of it- so long as it was still there.

The Viking stood motionless, waiting for some indication that the ancient boy was listening to him or at least knew of his presence. But the only reaction he received was his Maker's unseeing gaze falling away further to scrutinize his own lap in…it looked like…defeat.

"I disobeyed you," Eric ground out when he could not stand it any longer.

_Did you not hear me?_

A quiet murmur, "I heard you."

And nothing more.

Eric blinked. He had an incredible urge to seize Godric by the shoulders and shake him.

That was when the phone in his pants' pocket began to vibrate. The accompanying melody was nauseating. It was the kind of music that made him wish he was deaf in the early 1900s, and he didn't have to check to see who was bothering him. She programmed in her own ringtone, and she never failed to select something that would aggravate him.

He turned his back on Godric without apology, glaring at the picture-less walls of the den with disinterest as he lifted the cellular device to his ear.

"I told you not to call."

"There are zombies mating on your desk," Pam said overtop of what sounded like an especially rowdy night in Fangtasia, "I thought you might want to know."

"I see. How did they get into my office?"

"I was too busy putting out the fire behind the cash register to notice them taking an axe to the door."

Eric shut his eyes, massaging his brow in an attempt to rub away the train wreck she'd just described.

"I asked you to look after things until I got back. It's been five nights."

"Five nights in zombie hell. Those things ran Bon Temps into the dump, and now they're turning Shreveport into a mutilated, black-eyed orgy. Come home."

"No."

In Swedish, "Damn it, Eric. They found the Queen's stash. There's blood covering the floor."

He stopped massaging. He had to be cautious not to miss a beat in the conversation. He wasn't alone. He couldn't say anything in font of other vampires that could be used to link him or Sophie-Anne to the V later. He didn't know what languages Isabel and Stan had picked up over their however many centuries, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"Then give Ginger a mop."

"She has bottomless pits where her eyes should be."

"Make Chow do it. Or clean it yourself, and experience the joys of manual labor for the first time in a hundred years."

"Fuck off. I can't run this place alone. It's a pigsty."

"Close up if you have to."

"What about the money? The Queen-"

"I'll handle it."

Eric thought of the possessed women in the woods. There was a very good chance they were connected with whatever Pam was dealing with on a larger scale in Louisiana. Maybe they were stragglers of the main movement who wandered too far off and stumbled across the state border without realizing it.

Godric's scream rang in his ears again. The horrifying image of his Maker lying face down in the dirt with a knife handle sticking out of him haunted Eric mercilessly. If anything happened to Pam…

"Be careful," he added against his better judgment, a dead giveaway that something was wrong.

He ended the call before she could ask questions. She didn't need to know about any of this.

The Viking held the silent phone for an extra moment, allowing himself time to prioritize. The pull to grab Sookie and head directly to the airport was almost overpowering. His progeny, his business, and his Area were all in need of attention, and he couldn't do anything from Dallas.

On the other hand, Godric obviously needed his attention too. And Godric was his Maker.

The Maker came first. Godric would always come first.

Eric shoved the phone back into his pocket, resolute. Isabel and Stan were at it again. He glanced at them as he pivoted around, marveling at their uselessness. It was possible that Godric's behavior was a byproduct of living in the midst of their endless bickering. If Eric was forced to spend his waking hours trapped inside their personal fighting ring, he would mentally disengage too.

But that didn't explain why the ancient boy was willing to take a beating from a possessed blood bag. No matter how hard Eric tried to find a logical reasoning, nothing could explain that.

Sookie was waiting for him when he turned around.

"Is somethin' happenin' in Shreveport?" she asked.

If he didn't want to answer Pam's questions, he most definitely didn't want to answer hers.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop?"

"I've got a right to know. It's my home too."

A fair point.

"Technically, it's not. But it does sound as if the problems started in your quaint little village…"

She gasped, "Jessica?"

"Most likely no," he pictured the black-eyed women again, "It seems more like possession."

"…Of drugs?"

_They found the Queen's stash. There's blood covering the floor._

Pam's voice ripped through Eric's head without warning. It tore its way out of his skull and down his throat, shredding past his lips like something forced out of him by an exceptionally creative torturer.

"No," he replied, firm and immediate.

Sookie flinched backward. She gave him a look that clearly said he'd overreacted and, worse, wondered why.

Eric cursed himself in silence, then amended more naturally, "Not that kind of possession."

"Okay…" she hedged, hesitating, "Possession like…a demon?"

He used his Maker's words, his voice paling in comparison to Godric's:

"An evil energy."

"Somethin' evil is takin' over my friends and my family and your bar, and you're not makin' any plans to leave? You're a Sheriff. I thought you were supposed to take care of stuff like that."

"My duty as Sheriff is strictly to the vampires which reside in my territory. Widespread human insanity, regardless of where it's happening, is a human's problem. If you want it taken care of, send a letter to the President."

The division between Vampire and human government wasn't nearly as clean cut as Eric attempted to make it sound. The issues of one race bled into the other on a regular basis. There were at least twice as many human perpetrators rotting away in Fangtasia's basement two weeks ago than vampires he'd brought before the Magister in the last year. He didn't even know for sure whether vampires could be possessed by this 'evil energy' or not.

"Go," Godric said.

Eric looked to the couch, startled to find his Maker's head up, alert, and staring at him.

He met the steadiness of his gaze in disbelief. _Now _he had his attention?

"What?"

"There's no reason for you to stay here. Go."

He fumbled for words, "You…"

"I am no longer your concern."

Eric blinked three times in rapid succession. The statement was completely contradictory to everything he'd been taught. It was impossible to follow. For over eight hundred years, Godric had been his _only _concern.

"You're my Maker."

Godric closed his eyes as he nodded, "I know. And, as your Maker, I…am telling you…to leave."

It was almost a command. Eric felt the old awakening of Godric's will –dormant in his veins- preparing to override his system. But the direct order was aborted, and his blood calmed, and his body remained his.

"I don't want to leave."

"I don't recall asking what you wanted."

Godric sat up straighter, raising his chin a fraction. Eric observed the subtle change with a familiar sense of dread. He recognized this, and it was in no way a good sign. The almost-command had been a reminder that he was not formally released from his Maker; that his free will was still a privilege.

"Louisiana, Fangtasia, Pam…These are the things that matter," the ancient boy said, and for a moment Eric was in Godric's bed on the first night, discussing happiness.

Why hadn't he mentioned Godric's name then?

"I will not abandon you for them," he vowed.

"No… You abandoned them for me."

Eric didn't understand what was wrong about that. He pushed everything aside to come to his Maker's aid, and now Godric was angry with him for it? He gawked at him openly, uncomprehending.

Condemnation sparked in Godric's eyes as his mouth twisted in understated outrage.

"You are weak," he told Eric in clipped, unforgiving speech, "I am ashamed of you."

The wind whooshed out of the Viking's lungs and spots dotted his vision, as if he'd taken a blow to the gut and the head at the same time. Failure slammed down on him like a ton of cinderblocks dropped from the sky on to his shoulders with no forewarning.

His legs began to buckle beneath the weight.

"Godric, ple-"

That was when the silence interrupted him.

Suddenly Eric became all too aware of the harsh quiet hanging over them. Sookie, Isabel, and Stan existed again. The pressure of their unwelcome presence kept him standing even though all he wanted was to fall to his knees. His pride cut off his pathetic groveling as soon as he realized it was being heard by someone other than Godric.

He looked away from his Maker, breaking the spell of their imagined privacy to glance at the audience. Sookie was staring at him, and Stan. Isabel was focused on Godric, but took notice the instant his eyes breezed past her.

When he returned to the waiting gaze of the ancient boy, Eric felt all the more pitiful. Godric hadn't looked away from him at all.

The Viking clenched his jaw. He tried to make himself kneel, but he was frozen. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again without any sound escaping. The humiliation constricted him, and he fought against it, all the while knowing he was shaming Godric.

Finally, he hung his head.

"Go," Godric instructed once more, mercifully, "You've embarrassed yourself enough."

This time, Eric obeyed without resistance…

"He didn't mean it," Sookie offered unhelpfully.

Eric was walking with her back to the hotel, regretting his decision not to rent a car more and more with every step. The distance was short. But it was not short enough to avoid her unwanted, inadequate sympathies.

He hoped if he remained unresponsive, the telepath would take the hint and shut up. Of course he couldn't be that fortunate.

"I remember when my Gran would get mad at me, I mean real mad, she would holler all sorts of nasty things to get the steam out. And afterwards, I'd feel so terrible for lettin' her down that I'd go up to my room and slam the door on the world. But she wouldn't let me sit up there ten minutes before she'd come find me with a slice of pie and a smile, and I always knew everything was gonna be alright between us."

Eric wished he had a stake currently in his possession. He'd settle for earplugs. Or duct tape.

"Godric is not your grandmother."

"I just mean I understand what it's like –to disappoint somebody you look up to?"

Eric whirled on her, his fangs spiking along with his temper, "You don't understand anything. Do not insult me by pretending that you do."

How dare she? She had no idea what it was to be a vampire. She couldn't begin to comprehend how it felt to have a Maker, or be one for that matter. She didn't know Godric... Then again, did Eric even know Godric anymore? And if Eric didn't know Godric, who _did _he know?

Sookie didn't say anything else. She moved alongside him, undoubtedly offended. Eric was surprised she didn't find the lack of conversation in the elevator uncomfortable. Perhaps she did, and was waiting for him to break the silence. But Eric didn't want to talk. To anyone.

His Maker said he was weak, and so he was.

They exited the lift only to be met by a strangely enthusiastic woman with long, brown hair halfway up the hall.

"Sookie!" she exclaimed without a southern accent, "There you are! I've been waiting for you all evening."

"Excuse me?" Sookie asked.

"It's me, Maryann Forrester. We met at Merlotte's a couple of days ago. I'm here with Tara. She wanted to come visit you."

"…What?"

"Oh, she left you a message this morning. Haven't you checked your voicemail?"

A/N: I just wanted to throw a quick thank you out there to TheSematary'sProgeny for your amazing feedback and putting up with all of my inane babbling. I pulled her on the TB wagon about two months ago, and you should definitely check out her writing if you have a chance.


	10. The Maenad II

The veil separating Maryann from her god had never felt so thin.

Dionysus' sacrifice sat mere inches from the maenad, her golden hair infusing the air with a sugary ardor which Maryann seized hungrily in her lungs. She would never admit to doubting her lord, of course, but there were times when she wondered if this moment would ever come.

There had been a great many sacrifices. If she was being honest, there had been a great many true sacrifices too. But this telepathic waitress, this Sookie Stackhouse, was the one she was searching for. She could feel it. She had it right this time, and soon she and her husband would be wed in the cloudtops of the heavens.

The enormity of this meeting was staggering. There weren't words.

Maryann began to tear up. She dabbed at her waterlogged eyelashes with the side of one knuckle, smiling at the wavering outline that was Sookie's face. She thrilled at how everything seemed to dance through the lens of emotion. Even inanimate objects like the velvety loveseat beneath her, and the flat screen television mounted on the wall of the vampire's hotel room, skittered lively outside of the boundaries set by their structure.

It was all just another example of the glorious capabilities of excess. What a disgrace that so few mortals allowed themselves to experience the depths hidden within their own souls. Modern society had smothered the very essence of life to little more than a decrepit gasp.

Sookie's blurred expression transformed into something fantastically perturbed.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm just _so happy _you're here," the maenad blinked to contain her tears. "At last…"

She extended a hand out and spun it gracefully in the air, trailing the back of it down Sookie's cheek. The tanned skin buzzed beneath her fingers. The tiny vibrations beckoned to her in promise.

Sookie recoiled, leaning back to pull her face out of reach. Her arms crossed over her chest as her eyes jittered nervously in their sockets. Maryann followed the general direction of their fidgeting, and met the gaze of the blond vampire looming over them from where he stood behind the miniature sofa.

She refocused on the sacrifice after only a fraction of a second. The dead man held no interest for her. Her god needed _life_.

"You couldn't have been waitin' that long. We were only gone for a couple of hours," Sookie pointed out with absurd reason.

"Was that all? It seemed so much longer."

Maryann sniggered at her own inside joke, rising from her seat on impulse to fetch something to drink. She rolled her feet from heel to toe in full appreciation of the luxurious throw rug cushioning their soles. Shoes were optional at most to her mind, and she'd chosen to forgo them tonight. This occasion demanded she enjoy herself to the fullest. Anything less would be an injustice to all that she embodied.

She tilted her head back with a deep, contented hum, and let her eyes flutter partway shut. Her hand curved around her neck as she slowly rotated her skull full circle around her shoulders. Hair fell forward like silky curtains on either side of her face when she touched her chin to her chest. Joints cracked and tendons stretched splendidly beneath her fingers.

Holding her face at an angle, view slanted away from Sookie and the loveseat, Maryann swept over the suite with a thieving scrutiny. The stainless steel break in the counters of the kitchenette gleamed into her eyes. She swallowed up the shine, winding around the armrest supporting Sookie's back in a cheerful jog.

"You know, I've never been to a vampire hotel before," she said lightly, bounding across the cold tile.

Maryann bent at the waist to grab the handle of the fridge. It looked like a full size refrigerator that had been made victim of a most gruesome decapitation. The maenad's expression turned gleeful at that messy thought, but tumbled when its innards revealed nothing more exciting than a full stock of uselessly synthetic blood.

"Ingrates," she fumed.

The fridge slammed closed with a violent slap of her arm, making the counters tremble and toppling a container of antibacterial soap into the nearby sink. This was an establishment that catered to blood drinkers. She knew that. Still, the realization that there was nothing for her to celebrate Dionysus' sacrifice with other than the vampires' putrid alternative food source unnerved her.

She pressed her brow against the red splotch the strike left by her wrist. The warmth of the potential bruise reminded her of a heating pad at a spa. Karl would have to learn how to make some of those.

Maryann regretted not bringing him, or any of the humble disciples she'd gathered since landing in Dallas for that matter. But regrets were meant to bog down the stuck and dispirited creatures of the world; the creatures who flocked to her release. They were not for Maryann. She would just have to be self-sufficient, she supposed.

What had dropped so suddenly into the hottest fury bounced just as quickly back into fervent enthusiasm. Her eyes moved in a searching promenade across the countertops for items of interest. They lingered on the fallen container of soap, but Maryann made no effort to right it. Rather, the maenad believed it looked better out of place.

There was no stove. Only a microwave hung over the chilling appliances, cradled in a hollowed out rectangle of wood with precise, cream colored corners. Maryann decided the limitations of what could be prepared here were too devastating to speculate on. It wasn't by any happenstance that this was her first visit to a vampire hotel. It would in all likelihood also be her last.

Finally, something caught her eye. It was pushed to the far side of the left end counter, huddled in a corner beneath a cabinet's shadow. An electrical cord wound around it tightly. The plug that belonged in the vacated socket in the wall was twisted in a gorgeous, wretched distortion that set its metal prongs sideways on the polished granite.

The pot it held was sparkling, and the brand name printed on the front of the contraption didn't have a scratch to obscure its message: it was a coffee maker.

"Aha!"

Maryann began to unwind the cord in triumph, glancing over her shoulder with a whimsical glee. Sookie had gotten up and followed her into the kitchenette. She was standing a few feet back, staring for all she was worth –which, to Maryann, was an entire destiny.

"That figures," the maenad said. "A healthy dose of caffeine must be essential when you're staying up all hours of the night."

Sookie's answering grin stretched wide, "I'm sorry, where did you say Tara was?"

Maryann tugged open drawers and cupboards, trying to find where the filters were stashed. She didn't close any behind her. The compartments were left gaping; a tribute to the disorderly where organization won out everywhere else.

"I dropped her off at a motel with Eggs. She wanted to see you tonight, of course, but… by the time our flight landed, neither of them was in any condition to go anywhere."

She cackled delightedly as she tore the top off a pouch of coffee grinds.

"You mean they were drunk?"

"Free tequila. The pilot was a client of mine."

The carefully modernized term Maryann used to describe her followers had changed countless times over the years. She started using 'client' at some point in this lifetime, and the professional connotation of the word had given her access to more people, places, and events than most of the sheltered population would like to believe.

"I thought you were supposed to be helpin' 'em get their lives back together."

The accusation in Sookie's voice was offensive. Maryann turned to face her fully while the coffee maker slurped and bubbled into action.

"You think loosening the grips of reality isn't helpful? There isn't anything in existence more therapeutic than happiness."

A rap on the hotel room door pounded out a beat of interference.

Sookie directed her attention toward the vampire, who Maryann had almost completely forgotten about at this point. He was still standing against the back of the couch, though he'd pivoted so he could watch the goings on in the kitchen nook. He was physically impressive enough, and the vampiric allure of danger sat well on him. But there was such despondency radiating off him that the maenad wondered why anyone would want to wrap themselves in a wet blanket.

When the rapping came a second time, he hunched away from the furniture and went to answer the summons with a long look in her direction.

Maryann beamed giddily, sensing the onset of opportunity. Now she had Sookie to herself. It became obvious that the telepath was aware of their exclusivity as well, but she shared none of Maryann's excitement. Her gaze trailed after the vampire with a pleading discomfort.

The maenad drew in closer, making it appear as though she was seizing the moment with the most altruistic of intentions.

"Sookie," she murmured in a concerned hush, face falling gravely, "your friends are worried about you."

This change in tone gave her the eye contact she was seeking.

"Tara's worried?"

"Everybody is. They love you. They want what's best for you, and they want you back."

"They haven't lost me."

Maryann painted on pity; it was a look reserved for persons so far gone, they didn't even realize their point of reference (otherwise known as normalcy) had fallen away beneath them. For all of the chaos she took credit for, for all of the wondrous dark impulses she brought to light, this insinuating sorrow was one of her most effective weapons of manipulation. Cause people to question their own reliability, and everything else followed soon enough.

"When was the last time you worked a full shift at your job? Or…spent the afternoon outdoors, in the sun? I'm not here to visit, Sookie. I came to take you home."

"I'm gettin' paid more for relaxin' in this hotel for a few days than I'd make at the bar in months. I don't need you to take me anywhere."

She was insulted, defensive, and completely opposed to the idea –just as the maenad anticipated she would be.

"You truly believe that." Maryann shook her head in premeditated dismay. "How can I make you see that your worth is so much greater than a price tag? Do you really want to spend your nights sitting in the background of a world you're not a part of?"

The first hint of triumph simmered beneath Sookie's silence when Maryann paused. She picked up again the instant the sacrifice opened her mouth, turning to motion toward the vampire conversing lowly with another of his species in the entryway.

"_This _is the future…"

She didn't know until afterward, but the glance she bestowed on the vampire's guest was like fumbling blindly across the trigger of a gun. That face…She'd seen it before. In another time, a less civilized place, with matted hair and eyes bright with massacre. But the features were the same. The features hadn't aged a day.

Maryann was thrilled and mystically stupefied. It was a rare occasion when her past caught up with her. She had a tendency to eradicate any threads she wove in the fabric of the universe, and her disciples never remembered her (should she bother to leave them in one piece). An acquaintance this old was a remarkable treat, and, if it was not him, surely he was a reincarnation. It was unbelievable to think he could actually be –

"Godric," she marveled, breathless.

Excitement tinged her spirit at the immediate reaction the name received. Both of the vampires swiveled in her direction, the atmospheric energy about the maenad imploding with the unexpected. She winked at Sookie before drawing nearer to the familiar face; the gods could not have sent a more explicit sign of the telepath's ability to bring forth her lord.

"Is it you?"

Maryann waited out the question with festering knots of anticipation. But there was no response. The wide eyes she thought she knew mimicked her transfixion blankly, without the tiniest flicker of recognition. He did not even appear confused, barely curious.

The maenad felt herself deflate. Not only was this being not Godric. He was also a hopeless bore –a gaping drain of energy. She said a silent apology to Dionysus and her brother of the past for believing he had any connection to this sad vampire.

A flash of color was all it took to change her mind.

Stark and disruptive, and only just peeking out from the collar of his shirt, Maryann's eye latched onto a slither of ink that restored her hopes in an instant. She stalked to the guest in question, gripping the hem dropping below his throat to pull it down further. The shirt was soft, the fabric natural, and it gave easily to her will.

What her finagling revealed was too much Godric's, impossible even for a reincarnation to gain access to. The collar of the shirt peeled away to unveil another collar; a tattooed, spiked piece of artwork which had not been ingrained in Maryann's memory by any run of the mill needle. They didn't make them like _that _anymore.

She released the shirt. It bounded back into place as swiftly as her eyes returned to the boyish face. She regarded him in awe, reaching up and framing snowy cheeks with open palms.

"You are Godric." And yet he was not in the same moment –an old friend in the guise of a stranger. "How can this be?"

"You know her?"

The question belonged to the blond vampire, who was glancing between the maenad and her past from underneath a furrowed brow. In response, the one that she'd affirmed was Godric studied her with a potent whiff of concentration.

He hesitated; she waited for comprehension to emblaze his eyes… "I don't remember her."

Maryann's arms dropped as if he'd knotted sandbags to her wrists.

"But you must remember."

There would be no purpose to Dionysus sending her a sign that did not know her. Hearing her identity on his lips was the only way she could be assured she was on the right path and not wrong about Sookie. Without that, the telepath's discovery would be exactly like all the others –each and every one a disappointment.

Godric was still staring, "My name, where did you learn it?"

Unless Maryann was to make him remember.

Ignited with the desperation of last resort, she seized his hands. Her fingers curled around his downturned ones while her thumbs rested over the notches of his knuckles.

She squeezed, "I'll remind you."

Maryann tipped her face toward the ceiling, neck extending backward as her eyes closed to make way for other senses. The energy contained here was a different sort than what she channeled in the presence of those like Tara and Eggs. Human cores were held open for her; most welcomed her inside, and even the resistant were powerless to stop the invasion of her supremacy.

Supernatural energy, like what the vampires possessed, was by some great misfortune not simply hers for the taking. It was inaccessible to Maryann without consent. Only the supernatural themselves had the skeleton key that would unlock them to her, a safety net installed for the tedium of balance.

If Sookie's telepathy had been in doubt, there was nothing further to ask about it now. Whether the red-haired, Bon Temps barmaid was a credible source or not, Sookie was most definitely something collectable. That was proof enough of her worthiness to Maryann. Godric's energy, though, was even more inaccessible than she expected.

Every tremor of power shooting out from her seemed to be lost in hollow space. There was no rebound, like there was in the usual case of supernaturals. The waves she sent through him entered and then vanished, as if swallowed whole with nothing to bounce off of.

Maryann's vibrations grew more intense in pursuit of Godric's core. She may not have been able to uncoil supernatural energy, but she could touch the shield surrounding it. She knew from experience, and memories of the very hands she held, that the mutation protecting it was within reach. It was this that enabled her to force Sam Merlotte to shift into a dog, or whatever the appropriate special effect may be.

The visual caused Sookie to echo one of Tara's favorite existential questions: "What the fuck?"

Why Godric's essence lurked so far from the surface was a mystery. She waded through miles of dormancy, dropping below the border of consciousness. The rhythms of the chants in her head were a crack's width from his spirit's burial ground when the maenad's searching graces struck solid.

Ice. Maryann couldn't think of when she last encountered anything so cold. The chill slowed her resources to a degree that made her wonder if she was pressing against the right personal component.

Then she heard him breathe. A long draw of air was whisked noisily down his throat –the needy rasp of a man on his deathbed. Godric's fingers constricted around hers like steel cables. The distinctive _click_ of fangs pulled southward assured the maenad she'd hit precisely where she should have.

She pulled her seeking ropes back to herself and calmed the flares of energy ricocheting off her nerves. The vibrations rolling through her ceased, and Maryann opened her eyes to behold Godric's, his enlightened gaze drilling into her pupils as if their depths held the elixir of life itself.

"Callisto," he proclaimed, and the retired title was never more satisfying to hear.

She clasped her hands together with a rejoiceful clap. Her accompanying expression was broad, bold, and boisterous.

_Thank you, my lord._

"What did you do?" the blond vampire interjected, self-involved enough to think she'd respond to the threat in his growl.

She didn't spare him a slither of focus.

"I go by Maryann these days, even though they call me just about everything. Do you still consider yourself Godric?"

"Godric is my name."

"Well, it probably is. But you're not the feral boy I met –how long has it been? 1700 years? 1800?" She waited for Godric's confirmation.

His head bobbed in walleyed astonishment, "At least."

Maryann threw her arms around the ancient boy's neck, unwilling to deny herself physical testimony of his significance and unable to see the reason behind denying herself to begin with.

"Sweet savage…" she sighed deeply, tightening her hold. "Tonight is the night the stars have aligned for me. I know more surely now than ever."

Her embrace was met with absolute rigidity. Maryann could feel his shoulder pressing against her face, strained into an unprepared half-shrug, as if she'd assaulted him with affection. She whisked the implications of such body language away for a possible later, and then she angled her mouth toward his ear.

"He's coming," she whispered.

The news spurred the immobile limbs at Godric's sides into action. They bent sharply at the elbows in the very same instant that he seized the maenad's arms, forcibly peeling her apart from him. She stumbled, jostled in a fabulous way by the _speed _of the separation. And to think she'd almost neglected to recall the vampire tendency to accelerate with age.

The blond vampire seemed determined to ensure that she would never neglect it again.

It was all very sudden. The near-incident would have passed as 'unpredictable' (Maryann's favorite sort of event), but Godric turned out to be well prepared for his reaction. Maryann just caught the blur of him coming at her. The laughter on her lips had traveled far enough to evoke a smile, and then Godric showed an open hand to his fellow corpse –an immobile wave –and her attacker halted.

The maenad was crestfallen for but a moment before she found the entire situation funny. A giggle spawned a few more as she partook in the outrageous confusion she'd inspired in Sookie. Allowing anyone to see her through rational eyes was detrimental to her mission, or so she'd uncovered a handful of centuries ago with some exquisitely uncivilized tribe. That, however, did not make bafflement any less of a sport. With a strong spice of anger and frustration, the self-restrained vampire was at a loss which was even more pleasing.

"Okay, I know gettin' asked this over and over is really annoying, but somethin' like you has to be used to it," Sookie said in Maryann's general direction. "What are you?"

"I'm a social worker."

Maryann's head spun toward Godric with mischievous, raised eyebrows. Keeping secrets was so much more fun when someone else was in the know with you. The very reason why people longed to share them was that they weren't supposed to. Wrong was human nature. As soon as rules were placed in their way, the desire to break them was born in the affected.

Godric was in the thicket of the know now. Maryann could see the mutual knowledge in him as well as she could sense it. He saw her for what she was. Because of her, he remembered everything.

He didn't return her quirk of comradeship.

"What are you here for?" His voice was flat.

Hers was sloped with feeling, "I found it."

Maryann was sure he wouldn't have to search around the room to deduce whom the sacrifice was. She was right.

"Her?"

The approximating dart of his eyes was for Sookie, and a toothless grin formed a deep valley on the maenad's face. She abruptly neared tears again. It felt so incredibly _wonderful_ to be able to tell a being who understood what this meant to her, for her –to tell another that knew, at least in part, how bottomless her quest had been.

Her expression must have been answer enough.

"What about me?" Sookie demanded.

Maryann watched Godric's gaze linger silently on the blond vampire and replied for him:

"You're special."

And her heart would be too. The maenad could imagine the organ in all its gruesome glory. She could imagine the thudding life force hammering against her palm; how loud the sacrifice would scream; how quickly the empty chest cavity would flood with the hot burgundy that would paint her weighted hands, an oozing, muscular beacon for her love…for her Dionysus.

She could see it, and so could Godric. There was a bleeding future smeared on his face when he turned his head back to Maryann. But none of the anticipatory thrill she thought it would bring came with it. The ancient boy had always been dead. Now he looked it. The lines of exhaustion in the young skin were so deeply etched that even she felt like a child.

The extreme chill of his energy, the distance of it from anyplace near accessible, churned about in Maryann's thoughts. It caused another piece of fate's puzzle to fall into place for her, and suddenly she knew why the god's sacrifice was vacationing in Dallas.

She knew why Godric had come to her.


End file.
